CHAPTER 97
Wolf in sheep's clothing. Wolf, indeed, Calla mused, digging out the lockpicks she'd stashed in her nightstand. Time to go hunting. "I'm heading out," she called, hoping her mother would be able to hear her from the kitchen. Soft footsteps alerted her to her mother's approach. Calla quickly tucked the small leather kit in the waistband of her shorts. "You just got home," Rosalind Parker protested, appearing in the doorway with a bag of chips in hand. "I want to stop by Rachel's," Calla murmured, letting her eyes drop to her feet. Her mother immediately went to her side. "Oh." Calla often frequented her dead best friend's place. Morbid, perhaps. But a grieving teenager needed a ritual, and her mother did not begrudge her this. "Spaghetti for dinner?" Her favorite. "Sure." He
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