The Psychopath Next Door

24: Imaginary Friends

Calla stood in the Smith's driveway, staring up at the modestly sized mansion with her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. Her breath coiled in the air above her, disappearing into the grey sky above.

She hadn't been here since the night of the winter gala. She hadn't planned on coming back, either. But here she was, staring up at the empty windows on the second story that looked into Rachel's room. The curtains had been drawn, blocking out the rest of the world.

She reached into her front pocket and felt nothing. A spark of anger flitted through her and then was gone.

Idling in front of the house was the Smith's white Escalade, exhaust curling from the rear. The trunk stood open and a faint dinging came from within. Beside the car were five suitcases.

The front door to the house stood open. Tony Smith carried a backpack in one hand and a tote in the other. Calla expected to see grief in his face, in part because that's the man she'd seen at the funeral, eyes rimmed with red and watery with the threat of tears.

But he was beyond that now. He stared at the car vacantly, an empty vessel long abandoned.

Patricia Smith stood by the car, gazing up at the house with the same blank look in her eyes. Neither one of them had spotted Calla, who announced her presence by walking toward the car, the gravel crunching underneath her boots.

Patricia turned, a look of surprise animating her face for a moment before even that was wiped away. She gave Calla an empty smile and walked forward to sweep her in an embrace. She was frailer than Calla remembered, her spine digging into Calla's hands.

She leaned back. Her eyes—Rachel's eyes—had sunken deep into her skull, casting dark shadows on the rest of her face. "You came."

They'd never discussed Calla's visit. Hell, she hadn't so much as picked up the phone to warn them she was on her way over. She still didn't know what had driven her here. It had been a three mile walk across town, skirting the main roads in favor of winding back ways, her lungs burning with cold.

She was supposed to be getting ready for the movies later. It's not like she was thrilled to be spending her night surrounded by people she hated, Jessica and Astrid chief among them. But it was the official we survived the first week of school celebration—which was really just a horrible irony, considering how their classmates were dropping like flies. Stephanie was going to be there, and Ryan, and Calla had a lot of work to do before she figured out who her next target should be.

And yet, here she was.

She hadn't even known where she was going when she'd left the house. But maybe that was a lie. She had, after all, dug around her nightstand for the spare key Rachel had given her.

The key that was now missing.

Not missing, a voice whispered. Stolen. But why?

Calla gave the older woman a thin smile. "I figured...it was time."

She'd known. By some unspoken law, Rachel's mother had known Calla would come. Known she had to come.

The slamming of a door made them both turn. Tony had loaded the suitcases and shut the trunk, drifting around to the driver's seat with barely a word. He didn't so much as turn to call to his wife. He just climbed into the car and shut the door, staring ahead with his hands on the steering wheel.

Patricia turned back to Calla, her eyes like two black holes. She pursed her lips. "We're going to visit my brother out in Florida for a few weeks."