The Psychopath Next Door

18: To Catch a Killer

I'm Death, and I make all equal.

Death. An accurate analogy, considering that Calla had a tendency to destroy those in her path.

She had no evidence to suspect that the analogy was meant for her. The killer could just as easily be referring to himself—a god living amongst men. An equalizer. A punisher.

But something about the murders felt familiar. Perhaps because, as she suspected, she had been the one to kill Tracy Smith, and each murder that had followed traced her pattern with eerie accuracy. If her theory was correct, this killer—this god, this equalizer, this punisher—had meant for these deaths to impact her in some way. A scare tactic. A warning. A sign. She couldn't be sure.

She couldn't even be sure of her own motives. She would catch this killer, yes. But would it be for revenge. Or morbid self-indulgence?

Calla ran from the downtown station with newfound purpose, setting a brisk pace—a tempo that she'd perfected only last year, Coach always reminding her to breathe, Parker, breathe. So she did just that. Her breath came out in small puffs, her lungs burning from the cold. She pulled her hands inside the sleeves of her maroon pullover to keep them warm. In her right she held a key—Rachel's key. The one she'd given her two years ago as an open invitation to come over whenever she felt like escaping reality or venting about a particularly horrendous day in chemistry.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Cory's house wasn't much farther.

She had no idea if he was even home. But the interrogation she'd just endured had awakened something. The fury that had been simmering in her core since Rachel's death was growing larger, an inferno—now nearly impossible to contain. It felt like a wild beast caged in her belly, clawing desperately against the lining of her stomach, ripping her apart from the inside in a bid for freedom.

She didn't know how to banish the beast. She didn't know if she could.

Did she even want to?

She'd thought about waiting for Cooper outside of the station, to pick his brain for anything and everything he'd learned. But that would be foolish. There were too many eyes watching them there, too many questions that would be asked if they were seen leaving together, sharing whispers. Calla needed to stay far away from Cooper, at least for today.

Besides, there were other, far more important fish to fry. The interrogation had given her just one lead, and that lead was Jessica Sneider.

What do you know about Rachel and Jessica's relationship? Detective Schuster had asked her, sliding Rachel's phone—unmistakably hers, the case marbled with pink, white and gold—across the table. She'd spent what felt like hours staring at the series of texts pulled up on the screen, analyzing the furious exchange of words between the two girls.

We got in a fight, Rachel had told her that fateful night, staring down at her impossibly high heels. I'd rather avoid her if we can.

Motive. Jessica Sneider had motive.

She'd told the detective as much. Why lie? Jessica and Rachel had fought, yes. No, she had no idea why—not until now. Yes, the two had been on the same cheer squad since the fourth grade. And yes, Jessica had shared the spotlight of co-captain with first Tracy Smith and then, upon her death, Rachel Smith.

And yes, Detective. Both girls are now, conveniently, dead. Step right up, Captain Sneider.

Calla resisted the urge to take a right at Cherry Street. Instead she sprinted forward, angling away from Jessica's house—and away from the murder she would doubtless commit if she showed up at her front door. She fought temptation every step of the way. But the closer she drew to Cory's neighborhood, the easier it became. Her furious thoughts began to clear. Reason stepped in.