Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 26

Maybe that's what had drawn the killer to the book. Everyone loved a great bargain.

Don't be moronic. He closed out of his search history. The killer wouldn't leave such

an obvious trail.

Which meant that the killer already had the book on hand before heading off on a

murder spree. That, or he'd stolen it, leaving a false trail in his wake. Convenient.

And smart.

Cooper chewed on his lower lip, debating what his next move should be. Mope

around the living room, contemplating his impending doom? Or mope in the

confines of his bedroom, paralyzed by fear?

Feeling impulsive, he sent Calla the text he'd been staring at all morning—and all

yesterday, too—and prayed for a response. If he was going to throw himself a pity

party, he might as well see if Calla wanted to join him.

Misery loves company.

He was surprised by her quick reply: I don't want to talk.

He bit his bottom lip hard enough to sting. Please?

Little dots danced across the screen, and then just as quickly vanished. No

response.

A pit of nausea began to form in his stomach. After Rachel's death, he'd expected

many things from Calla. Wrath of unholy proportions. A bloodbath. An opening to

the gates of hell. He certainly hadn't expected... silence.

Maybe Rachel's death had affected his neighbor in a completely different manner

than he'd been anticipating. She'd tried to play the game—had tried to catch a killer

—and she'd failed. And now Rachel was dead.

"Screw this." Cooper hurried to his room, suddenly overcome with urgency. He

could ask himself hypothetical questions all day and get nowhere. Or he could find

the answers. "Full send, baby."

He shoved on his boots, ignoring a rush of nerves. His mom wouldn't be home for

another few hours, and considering time was now an especially valuable resource in

his life, he needed to utilize it wisely.

He'd just have to pen moping about impending doom elsewhere on his schedule.

He hurried out into the cold, slamming the door behind him and bracing himself

against the bitter December wind. He wound his way across the parking lot and

through the field of tall, dead grass, his sights set on the lair of the beast.

As he approached, he was struck again by the normalcy of it. The paint job on the

house was chipped and the green shutters were outdated, but otherwise the house

was quite charming, with little flower pots beneath the windows and a bird bath out

in the backyard by the oak tree. Nothing was in bloom, of course, but come spring

the farmhouse would burst into life.

It was nothing like Vincent's ramshackle shack. There were no beer cans littering the

lawn here, no pack of dogs barking wildly from within.

No. What was inside this house was far worse than any vicious animal.

Cooper walked up the porch steps and rang the doorbell, biting down his nerves. A

high-pitched voice called something unintelligible from inside. After a moment the

green door swung open, revealing a woman with curly hair.

Rosalind Parker. Her hazel eyes assessed him. They lacked the warmth he'd grown

accustomed to—the happy light that usually shone from his mother's eyes.

If he hadn't known any better, Cooper might never have guessed this woman could

be Calla's mother. Her eyes were too light, the red tint to her dark hair too subtle.

But the look in those eyes—tired, yes, but also sharp in a way that told him she saw

far more than he felt comfortable with—was familiar.

"Oh. Cooper?" She blinked at him, pulling a wooly cardigan around her shoulders.

"How are you?"

"I'm...holding up." His hand spasmed around the paper in his pocket. He panicked,

wondering whether he should call her Ms. Parker or Mrs. Parker. He went out on a

limb. "It's nice to see you, Ms. Parker."

"Rosalind." She offered a ghost of a smile and stepped aside, ushering him in.

"C'mon. It's freezing out."

He followed her to the kitchen, where she offered him a glass of water. He politely

declined, staring at his surroundings as subtly as possible. For the most part, he

and Calla had played outside as children. But there had been times—the rainiest and

coldest of days—when they'd barricaded themselves in her house, building forts out

of pillows and blankets in the living room and binge-watching cartoons.

Those days felt like a dream. A distant, hazy dream. Almost as if they'd happened

to someone else entirely.

"Calla's back in her room," Rosalind offered. She settled into the couch, a book in

her lap. Her eyes were down, voice pained, when she added, "She's...hurting."

He had no idea if that was even possible, and then he reprimanded himself for the

thought. That wasn't fair. Maybe Calla had loved Rachel in her own, twisted way.

Cooper thanked Rosalind and made his way down the hall, toward Calla's room. He

still remembered where it was. Funny, how memories worked. For the longest time

he'd thought he'd wiped every trace of Calla from his mind, scrubbing the stain of

her away like red wine on a rug. But now that he was here, back in her house, it all

came rushing back.

He stopped at the end of the hall. There were two doors, both closed. He rapped his

knuckles on the door to the left, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird's.

He glanced at the other door. He'd never been in that room, come to think of it. He

wasn't sure what was even in there—

"Stop lurking outside my door."

Cooper rolled his eyes and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. And then he

paused. The way he remembered her room was vastly different from what he saw.

There were no more bins of toys stacked against the wall. The obnoxious purple

comforter had been replaced with a soft, neutral white. And the set of drawings

pinned above the bed—her own artwork, featuring unicorns and fairies and about a

hundred shades of bubblegum pink—were gone, the wall smooth and blank.

Cooper wondered about those drawings. They'd always felt too bright. Too happy.

Too my child is completely normal, look at this unicorn! He wondered now if those

drawings represented the early days of Calla's charade. A time when she'd still been

learning, piecing together the fabric that would one day be the perfect mask that

she'd wear day in and day out.

He looked away, disturbed. His eyes fell to the cross-legged figure sitting on the

bed.

Calla ignored him. Her eyes were fixated on the large window that dominated the

majority of the right wall. Beams of sunlight illuminated her face, setting her red hair

on fire. Something gold flashed in her palm—a key. She rubbed it between her

fingers, the motion absentminded.

Her calm expression worsened his paranoia. He immediately flashed back to that

fateful night. When she'd turned from Rachel and found him through the sea of

onlookers, she'd taken his breath away. Because in her eyes had been an emptiness

so vast he'd feared he'd fall right in and never find a way out.

He felt that way now. This Calla—the girl sitting calmly on her bed, the sun

highlighting every plane of her face—terrified him in new, horrible ways. The calm before the storm.

"Why are you here?" She minced no words. She also didn't bother to look at him, her

attention completely focused on...nothing.

Cooper bit back a scathing response. Antagonizing her wouldn't help his case. And

he needed her on his side, now more than ever.

He'd come to that conclusion late last night, tossing restlessly in bed. His dreams—

nightmares, really—had been filled with blood and death, including his own. And

when he woke, he'd realized one horrible truth: he was going to die, and he was

going to die soon unless he did something about it.

He walked to the edge of her bed and sat, rubbing his hands across his knees. He

alternated between looking at her and looking at the floor. "I'm just...I'm freaking

out, okay? People are dead and it's not stopping and I'm...I don't know what to do

anymore." He rubbed his knees harder. "What do you think we should do?"

How do we stop the killer? How do we bury Rachel and just...move on? How do we

save my life?

"We? There is no we, Cooper."

He paused. "I thought we had a deal?"

She shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. "Just forget it. Let it go. We're not detectives."

His nausea grew. "Forget it? Rachel is dead. "

"I don't care."

Cooper swallowed, mouth dry. Anger made his cheeks flush. "What?"

"I. Do. Not. Care."

"Oh. Excuse me." He couldn't help the words that came out next. "I almost forgot.

This must be so annoying for you. Talk about inconvenient. Now you have

to...what? Start from scratch at the Build-a-Buddy Workshop and hope this one

doesn't die?"

That got her attention. She tore her eyes away from the window, pinning him with a

look of such loathing, he was surprised he didn't vaporize instantly. "Get out."

"No," he said, standing. He pointed a finger at her, embarrassed when it shook.

"You're avoiding all of this because you feel guilty. You can't back out now!"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I mean it, Cooper. Get. Out."

"You killed Tracy," he said, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the window,

his shadow crawling over her with each pass. His heart raced in his chest; part fear,

part adrenaline rush. "That got this s**t started. And now Rachel's dead. Because of

you ."

"Would you shut the hell up?"

"Or what?" he rounded on her, shoving his face into hers. "Are you gonna kill me,

too?"

He had no idea what overcame him. He'd never been this bold, let alone with Calla

Parker. But his anger flared, not to be reasoned with. Calla had manipulated and

used him. She'd threatened his best friend. She'd backed him into a corner.

She'd given him hope. And now she would dispose of him. Like trash.

Like a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket.

Calla reacted faster than he could blink. She grabbed his neck and slammed him

face down on the bed, using all of her considerable strength. He felt something

heavy and sharp dig into the center of his back, and realized she'd crawled on top of him and had pinned him down with her knees.

He felt cold hands wrap around his throat. His pulse jumped.

Her breath tickled his ear. "Don't ever assume I won't kill you."

Cooper swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. Her fingers were pressed against his

windpipe. "Well? Are you going to do it, or not?"

Bravery. Stupidity. Cooper couldn't tell which he suffered from.

After a moment's hesitation, the pressure on his throat released. Calla retreated to

the middle of the bed, her expression impassive once more. Cooper stood and

rubbed his neck, watching her warily.

He knew, in the primal part that still existed somewhere in his brain, that she meant

what she'd said. She would kill him, if it ever came to that.

The thought terrified and thrilled him at the same time. He was playing with fire. He

was playing with fire in a desperate bid to save his life, and he was so totally going

to get burned.

Still rubbing his throat, he said, more softly, "I know you care. So can you act like it?

For once?"

She refused to look at him, staring down at the golden key that had worked its way

back in her grip. There was no hint of the wild animal she'd unleashed just moments

before.

He sighed, daring to sit on the edge of the bed again. "I don't need you to cry on my

shoulder. But...I'm just sorry, okay? I'm sorry she's dead. I'm sorry we couldn't

save her." He paused. "But being sorry isn't going to bring her back."

"Obviously," Calla snapped. Her shoulders tensed and her fingers dug into the key,

causing her skin to turn white with strain.

A c***k in her armor.

He watched her, curious. This wasn't grief. Not the kind that most people felt.

This was the wrath he'd been waiting for.

She didn't want him to feel sorry for her. And that was fine. He didn't know if he

could feel sorry for her, all things considered. What she needed—what he needed—

was something else. An outlet for her anger. A way out of his predicament.

Maybe there was a way to do both . A horrible idea began to take form. He tried to

banish it, tried to un- think the idea, but he couldn't. It was there now, taking root,

enticing him.

Cooper contemplated his next words carefully. "Whoever killed Rachel..." He took a

deep breath. "Don't you want to find out who did it? Don't you owe her that much?"

She kept turning the key between her fingers. Kept ignoring him.

Cooper waited for a response, delaying his inevitable proposal—the one thing he

knew she wouldn't be able to resist. Calla wasn't swayed by his words thus far. At

least, that's what she would have him believe. But he saw the way she picked at that

key, her skin turning an angry shade of red in the process.

He opened his mouth and hesitated. There was a moral line he was about to cross.

Once he went too far—once he put a toe over that line—there would be no going

back.

But he had to cross it. His life depended on it.

"Help me find whoever the hell is doing this," he said, staring down at the bed. He

didn't want to look up. Didn't want to see the expression on her face. "Help me.

You wanted to find him before. You wanted to hunt. So help me find him now,

before..."

Before it's too late for me.

He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "Help me, Calla, and when we find

this asshole, he's yours."

He heard the sound of sheets shifting and looked up. Calla had unfolded her legs

and knelt on the bed, her face inches away from his. He stiffened. Her cool

composure had cracked completely, and she stared at him with a look of hunger

that sent a chill down his spine.

She tilted her head to one side. "What do you mean, exactly?"

She wanted to hear him say it.

Cooper ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his racing heart. It was done. He'd

put a toe over the line. No going back now.

"We find the Greenwitch Killer. And when we do..." He paused. "You can have your

revenge. You can kill him. I won't stop you. I won't even try. No one will ever

know."

He'd offered her the ultimate prize, perhaps at the cost of his own soul. But if he

didn't give her this, if he didn't give her what she so desperately needed, he knew

she would stop her hunt for the killer and leave him for dead.

She stared at him—stared and stared and stared. He held his breath, half-hoping

she'd say no and free him from this horrible guilt.

"You've got a deal, Cooper Daniels," she said slowly. As he watched, a vicious smile

lit up her face, contorting her features into something inhuman.

What have I done?