The Psychopath Next Door

14: It Takes Two to Tango

"Twirl."

"I don't want to twirl."

"Twirl."

Calla rolled her eyes and did as commanded, stretching her arms up like a ballerina for good measure.

Rachel squealed, bouncing on her toes. "You look great. I can't believe I got you in that dress."

Truth be told, neither could Calla. She'd gone through all the motions these last two weeks leading up to the winter gala. When Rachel insisted she go with her to get a mani-pedi, she did. When Rachel begged her to shop for new shoes, she groaned—but she did. Jewelry. Accessories. Endless hours spent scrolling through inspiration for hair and makeup. Calla had done all of it.

But dress shopping? That's where she'd drawn the line, no matter how Rachel had begged and pleaded and complained. She was busy, or so she insisted. Too busy for dresses.

It wasn't a lie. Calla was busy—busy trying to catch a killer. She'd had little success in the last two weeks. She'd tracked down as much information as she could on the Brothers Grimm, trying to find something that would trigger her lost memories. If she'd been the one to kill Tracy Smith, then it followed that she'd also stolen the book from Aunt Alice's collection. She'd been the one to leave that first, cryptic note.

But it was useless. She couldn't remember committing murder. Why would she remember stealing a book?

She tried to imagine the parlor room—the way it would have looked that night, awash in strobe lights as her fingertips brushed along a row of leatherbound spines. And then she imagined pausing on the volume of dark fairytales, her eyes scanning through the rudimentary artwork within. What about the book had caught her eye? Had she flipped to a page at random?

What the hell did I do with that book?

If she'd hidden it, she'd hidden it well. She certainly hadn't buried it.

Suffice it to say, Calla had no leads to go on. And without any fresh leads, all she could do was sit at home and stare at the ceiling, plotting ways to solve her predicament while Rachel begged her to shop for dresses.

In the end she'd allowed Rachel to pick a dress on her behalf—the gamble of all gambles. It was the only way to appease Rachel and give Calla peace of mind at the same time. She had no idea what to expect from Rachel's dress choice, but it was better than sweating in a dressing room, shimmying into skintight, glittering pieces of fabric that shed all over her things.

For all intents and purposes, Rachel had done well. More than well, really. Calla examined her figure in Rachel's mirror, running her hands over her hips. The dress actually made it look like she had hips.

"You look great," Rachel chimed in, mirroring Calla's thoughts. "My taste? Impeccable."

The little black dress hugged her figure, but that much she'd been expecting when she sent Rachel out to do her bidding. What she hadn't expected was the alarmingly deep V-neck. She'd been apprehensive at first glance, but she didn't have much choice but to throw it on and make it work. It was either this, or the see-through number hanging at the back of Rachel's closet.

"Here." From the depths of said closet, Rachel threw out a pair of strappy heels. "Put these on."

Let's try not to commit murder in these, Calla told herself. The pep talk of the century.

She sat on the edge of the bed to keep her balance while she wrestled with the straps. "What shoes are you wearing?"

Rachel slid out of the closet and posed against the doorframe. She kicked out her foot, displaying a pair of bright red, impossibly high heels. "These bad boys have yet to fail me."