Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 40

"Don't screw anything up."

He considered that. "Cool. Good game plan."

"Fine." She walked behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, turning his body

so that he was now angled toward the love seat on the far side of the living room.

They were far enough into the foyer that no one paid them any mind.

She pointed over his shoulder. "Ryan Kane. That's your target."

"Why does that make me sound like an assassin?"

"Cooper."

"Right." He nodded and then frowned, turning his head to look at her. "But he's

chilling on the love seat."

"So go chill with him."

"Dude."

"I am not your dude." Calla pushed his back gently. "Go. Make friends. Ask him

about the dance."

"How is that subtle?" Cooper hissed, whirling around to face her. He spread his

hands theatrically. "Oh, hey man! How's it been? Cool, cool. Have a good time at

the dance three weeks ago? Besides the murder thing? 'Cause same . Oh, do you

have any drugs on you, by chance?" He gave her a droll stare. "Did I cover all of my

bases?"

Calla closed her eyes. "One job. This is your one job."

"Fine," he whined, straightening the collar of his shirt. "What are you gonna do?" He

wiggled his fingers at her. "Do some redhead voodoo magic on Jessica?"

Calla sniffed. "Vincent can keep her company."

"Um. I thought we agreed keeping my best friend away from the potential serial

killers was a good idea? That includes Jessica."

"We didn't agree to jack s**t. Besides, at least he can keep her occupied. We can

only cover so much ground between the two of us."

Cooper gave her a skeptical look. "You're not jealous? Of him keeping her

occupied ?"

"Please." Calla brushed past him, adjusting the neckline of her sweater so it showed

just the right amount of skin. "I have better things to do."

She could have sworn she heard him mutter so does he, apparently, but she decided

to ignore him. It was for the best.

Jessica's living room wasn't as spacious as either of the Smith residences, but it

was large enough to comfortably accommodate a couple dozen bodies, with more

spilling into the kitchen and dining area. The lights had been dimmed for a moody

effect, and candles flickered on nearly every surface, casting writhing shadows

against the walls.

A large sectional dominated most of the living room and sat at least ten people,

with several more of Calla's classmates milling around the cobblestone fireplace.

Calla scanned the room as subtly as possible, pretending to look for a familiar face,

despite the fact that she recognized everyone here.

There were only six faces she was concerned with.

A loud laugh drew her attention back to the kitchen. Vincent and Jessica stood by

the fridge, red solo cups in hand. Across from them, on the other side of the

granite-top counter, were Gareth and Mike...or maybe it was Blake.

But she didn't think so. There was something in the way his fingers strained around

his beer bottle, something about the intense hatred in his eyes as he glowered in

Jessica's direction. That had to be Mike.

He took a quick swig from his beer while Gareth grabbed his shoulder, pushing him

in the opposite direction—pushing him away from the kitchen. He turned, and Calla

frowned as she got a good look at his face. A faded set of bruises ringed his right

eye, his busted lip still slightly discolored. And there, hugging his jawline, were more

shadows. Faint, but there.

Old bruises, still healing.

Calla glanced back at Jessica, who tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed at

something Vincent said. Her eyes slid back to Mike, but he was tromping off into

the dining room with Gareth, the latter's arm slung over his shoulder. He took

another swig from his beer.

Calla had to turn away before she shattered something. Or someone.

The broken remnants of a bloody beer bottle flashed in her mind. The injuries on his

face—his lip, his eye, his jaw—taunted her.

She whirled around and headed for the patio, in desperate need of fresh air. As she

reached the set of heavy double doors, Tom Sahein burst through, blocking her path

momentarily. His camera hung around his neck, a permanent fixture that appeared

to be a part of the boy's genetic makeup. But otherwise, he looked disheveled.

Unkempt. His oversized glasses sat askance on the bridge of his nose, his face

flushed. He shot her a look as he stormed past—it faltered somewhat at her narrow-

eyed warning—and then was gone, heading for the front door.

Calla had the sudden, wild urge to follow him. Corner him. To pull that camera strap

around his neck and watch him choke on it.

Together. Keep it together.

Rather than follow her dark urges, she slipped outside and made a beeline for the

darkness, away from the fluorescent lights that illuminated a nearby sitting area.

Cushioned furniture had been placed by an outdoor fireplace, which rose into the sky

like a great stone pillar. Scents of mint and lavender wafted up her nose. Hanging

pots of flowers drifted in a light winter breeze.

A huddle of kids sat by the small fire, but Calla ignored them, instead walking over

to the edge of the patio, where the light was weakest. There, three canvas portraits

had been propped up on easels, pillars of candles glowing at their base.

The portraits were headshots of Tracy, Jacob, and Rachel. Smaller photographs

littered the ground around each portrait, dangerously close to the candles. The

scene looked familiar. It reminded her of that day at the locker—the day she'd finally

wrung some small truth from Cooper in exchange for her silence.

Tributes, Calla thought, meandering over to Rachel's portrait: a headshot of her

laughing. The sun hit the side of her face and illuminated her eyes, casting a warm

glow over her skin.

At her feet, Calla examined the other pictures, which seemed to have been thrown

down without rhyme or reason. Pictures of Rachel with Jessica, with Stephanie, with

Mike and Blake and Astrid and her cousin, Tracy. And pictures with others, random

snapshots of nights Calla couldn't just now recall. She was surprised to see herself

in a few of the pictures, but she supposed it made sense. Calla had been a

permanent fixture in Rachel's life, a constant companion. She'd assumed it would

always be that way.

She hadn't imagined this.

In place of photographs, some had decided to leave a shooter bottle as tribute.

Most were half empty. A taste for the living—and the rest left to the dead.

Pour one out for the long gone, I guess, she mused.

Her humor was short-lived. The longer she stared at Rachel's laughing face, the

more her mind drifted to Mike Richardson. She thought of the bruises on his face.

She thought of his knuckles, white with strain as they clutched a beer bottle.

In the span of five short minutes, he had become her number one target.

Did you fight back, Rachel? she thought, reaching out to touch the canvas portrait.

Her fingers skimmed the cold, rough surface. Was his the last face you ever saw? Did

his breath smell like beer? Was that your last experience in this world? Death and beer

breath?

Calla didn't want it to be true. And not because she liked Mike. But because she

couldn't bear to imagine that those had been Rachel's horrific final moments.

"She'd like that picture," a voice murmured in the darkness.

She turned, annoyed at the interruption. Stephanie stood nearest Tracy's portrait,

her arms crossed to ward away the cold. She gave Calla a sad smile, lifting a hand

from her arm in an awkward wave.

"Hey." Calla turned back to face Rachel. As an afterthought, she asked, "Where's

Jess?"

Stephanie entered her peripheral view. She barely came up to Calla's shoulder,

though her dark hair and its wild mass of flyaways gave her a surprising amount of

volume. Her furry coat swallowed her frame, the scarf she'd wrapped around her

throat burying her in soft layers. Dark, almond-shaped eyes watched Calla carefully,

assessing her reaction to the makeshift memorial.

She said nothing, ignoring Calla's question entirely.

"I can't remember if I was there for this," Calla announced, touching the canvas

again. Goosebumps had risen on her arms, her neck. She should have layered up.

Stephanie had certainly had the right idea. "Maybe I was taking the picture. I feel

like I was always with her."

She couldn't remember. This picture would be one of the few things that remained

of Rachel in a few years, once more memories began to fade. A remnant of the girl

she'd once known.

"Funny how memories work," Stephanie admitted. "I can barely remember what my

little brother looked like."

The statement was sudden enough to catch Calla completely off guard. She

glanced down at Stephanie, at a loss for words. Grief had never been her specialty.

Even now she was uncomfortable with it. Confused by it. "Your brother?"

"He died when I was eight. He was only six." She shrugged, the shoulders of her

enormous coat moving with her. "The pictures are all that's left. And weird little

snapshots of memory. Like his laugh. Or the way he'd stick his fingers in my ears to

annoy me. I used to read him a story before bed. Every single night."

How had Calla not known this? She liked to think herself observant, one who

watched but was never watched —Cooper Daniels being the very apparent exception

to that rule. Yet here Stephanie Brighton was, a girl she'd known her entire life,

someone who'd run in the same social circles for years...and Calla had never known

she'd had a brother.

Funny how memories work...

Calla felt distinctly uncomfortable. The feeling threatened to consume her, to whisk

her away into a vast sea of nothingness until she drowned. There was something

prowling at the edge of her mind, tapping at the base of her skull.

Somewhere nearby, she swore she heard the sound of someone choking.

"Calla?"

She blinked, and the illusion shattered. The night was silent, save for the whisper of

nearby voices.

Calla realized she'd been staring at Stephanie, her expression blank. She quickly

gave a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"It's fine. You've gone through a lot these last couple weeks."