The Lies That Bind

11: The Art of War

Calla Parker had become something of an expert in the art of blackmail.

I suppose I have Gerald Michaels to thank for that, she thought, running her tongue along the lip of the envelope she'd bought at the post office earlier that morning. She'd written no return address, nor anything else that might indicate the letter had come from her. Only an address at the center and, above that, the recipient's name.

ASTRID BAKER

Calla dropped the envelope—heavy with the weight of the USB sealed inside it—in a mail receptacle on the corner, whistling merrily as she did so. The idea to feed the flames of Astrid's paranoia had come to her last night. Astrid, who had a nasty secret of her own. Astrid, who had found happiness in life.

Astrid. Astrid. Astrid.

She would receive the envelope in two to three business days, and when she did, Calla knew exactly what she would find inside it: on the USB, video evidence of the murder of Rachel Smith, copied over from Calla's computer; and at the bottom of the envelope, a photocopy of the same note the detective had hidden inside of Calla's graduation cap—I KNOW YOUR SECRET, spelled out in no uncertain terms, the black ink faded with time but no less ominous. An anonymous threat. A promise.

This wasn't a fairytale, had never been a fairytale—but at that moment, Calla couldn't help but recall one of the poems Cory—and through him, Stephanie—had once left for her to find.

Kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token.

The tale appealed to her more than it had before. Calla smiled as she edged open the heavy wooden door to her favorite cafe, taking savage delight in the knowledge that the contents of the envelope would shake Astrid to her core. 

She couldn't wait to watch the bitch squirm.

She had her reasons for baiting Astrid, which included satisfying her own vindictive nature. But it was more than that. It was a risk, and a calculated one. Astrid's paranoia had ruined her relationship with Gareth, and Calla wanted to know why. 

What did Astrid Baker have to fear? Besides the obvious, she mused, catching her reflection in a nearby window. Perhaps she'd been blackmailed, as Calla had been. Or perhaps Cooper was right, and the twins had warned her about what Calla was capable of, as a precaution.

Whatever it was, she hoped that this would be the push Astrid needed to confront her, and if it was, Calla wanted to be there to watch her unravel.

The thought of Astrid's glorious torment sustained her for most of the morning, the activity of the cafe a steady hum in the background; but not even her morbid daydreams could dull the monotonous task of proofreading an essay about amino acids. Calla sighed as she read and reread the same paragraph, the words blurring together.

Realizing the essay was a lost cause, Calla typed in a new search: Gerald K. Michaels, Greenwitch.

The detective is the missing link. Cooper's words came back to her then, grim and sure. He'd been right, of course. After combing through the detective's old case files, they'd found more than enough evidence linking him to each of the six targets Calla had been tasked with eliminating. Old cases, long-forgotten and buried by the public. Mistrials and fuck-ups that had weighed on Michaels' conscience for years. 

Until now. Until her.

Calla hadn't dedicated as much time as she should have to the task of unearthing Michaels' weaknesses, occupied as she'd been with thoughts of the professor and how she might be his undoing. She figured a coffee shop was as good as any place to begin her search.