The Psychopath Next Door

16: Roses and Peonies

 Fury.

She could feel it just beneath the surface, coiling under her skin like a snake.

"Calla?"

She stared at the ceiling, the covers pulled up to her chin and her hair fanned out on her pillow like a pillar of flame. Plots and schemes ran through her mind, but mostly she thought of blood.

Blood and revenge.

A soft knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. Her mother cracked the door and peered inside. "Hey, sweetheart. Cooper just pulled into the driveway."

The boy next door...not so innocent anymore.

Calla pushed aside the covers and slid out of bed, smoothing the front of her black dress. This one was nothing like the risqué piece Rachel had convinced her to wear to the dance. The thought sent a spasm of rage through her veins. It vanished just as quickly.

She picked off a piece of lint and grabbed her purse, following Rosalind out into the kitchen. Her mother enveloped her in a warm embrace before sending her outside, leaving her with a promise to meet her at the church for Rachel's funeral.

The funeral. Calla detested funerals. The charade of tears and mournful gatherers made her skin crawl.

Standing at the threshold of their house, Calla took a deep breath. She forced tears into her eyes—an exercise in grief that she did not feel. Or if it was there, it was buried somewhere deep, smothered by the dark rage that fueled her now.

I will make whoever killed her pay.

She hurried across the gravel driveway and slipped into the passenger side of Cooper's Mustang, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She checked her reflection in the visor.

"Fake tears?" Cooper asked, throwing the car in reverse.

"Practice makes perfect," she said drily, snapping the visor back into place.

"Excellent. I'd hate to think you'd grown a conscience overnight," he muttered. He pulled at the collar of his white button down, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a black suit, the fabric worn with age. The sleeves were too long; he wrestled with them now, trying to hide the excess fabric.

Her leg bounced as they turned a corner. The line to school felt considerably larger than usual. She blew out a frustrated breath as they slowed to a stop.

"In a hurry?" he asked, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

She thought about asking him the same. He appeared to be equally on edge. He ran a hand through his hair in what she could only describe as a nervous tic.

A license to kill—that's what he'd given her yesterday. What he'd promised her. A life in exchange for a life. The killer would die so that Cooper could live.

You can have your revenge.

She didn't deign to respond. Her restless leg spoke for itself.

It took less time than she would have thought to reach the front of the line. Cars crowded the front lot, horns blaring as chaos unfolded. Cooper navigated to his usual spot, stony faced as he threw the car in park.

"Calla—"

She opened the door and stepped outside. She swept the parking lot, absorbing the flurry of black that descended upon the school. Almost immediately, her sights landed on Vincent's unmistakable frame. He wore a nondescript black suit, the top button of his shirt undone. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. His hair looked as it had the night of the dance—wild and unkempt.