Wrath - 4

Hell hath no fury …

I feel nothing,
Beth thought, watching the tiny red light flash on her phone.
I see his name flash up on the screen, again and again, and I feel … nothing
.

It was just after dawn and she was at work. These days she was always at work, she thought bitterly, plunging the first batch of fries into the deep fryer and switching on the coffeemaker.

The phone rang a third time and, without warning, the wave of rage swept over her. It beat against her, pummeling her with the whys she couldn’t answer.
Why me?

She pictured Adam rol ing around in bed with Kaia, while they were stil together. She pictured Kane and his lying smile, touching her, stealing her trust. She pictured Harper whispering poisonous nothings in Jack Powel ’s ear. It wasn’t fair, she raged.

And when another part of her responded:
Life isn’t fair,
it only fueled her anger.

Beth began refil ing the ketchup jars, wiping off the lids. And she instructed herself to calm down.

Maybe deep breaths.

Counting to ten … or a hundred.

It al might have worked—but instead, she tightened her grip on the ketchup bottle, and then, without thinking, flung it across the room. It shattered against the wal , spraying glass through the air and leaving a garish smear of red dripping down the stained tile.

Beth should have felt horrified or panicked, afraid of herself—or for herself.

But she didn’t.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 2006 by Robin Wasserman

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Ann Zeak

First Simon Pulse edition July 2006

Library of Congress Control Number 2005933859

eISBN 978-1-43910-866-6

for Michelle Nagler and Bethany Buck, extraordinary editors who have given me an extraordinary opportunity

… let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

—Wil iam Shakespeare, Macbeth

And al I real y want is some patience A way to calm the angry voice And al I real y want is deliverance.

—Alanis Morissette, “Al I Real y Want”

It had to be.

She’d heard wrong. Or it was a lie.

A dream. A nightmare. Something.

Because if it was true
—

If it was true, and this was reality, there was no going back to the person she’d been. Before.

She remembered that person. Hard. Angry. Fury coursing through her veins. It had consumed her, until her focus narrowed to a single point, a single goal: vengeance.

It had been the perfect plan, every detail seamlessly falling into place. She had lain awake imagining how it would play out—wondering whether it would still the howling
voice inside her, not that she’d finally given in to what it most desired.

Vengeance.

The plan had worked. Everything had unfolded as she’d imagined it. She’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted. But
…

She’d made a mistake. A fatal error. Because it hadn’t gone
exactly
as planned, had it?

There was supposed to be humiliation—and there was.

There was supposed to be suffering—and there was.

Everything had gone the way it was supposed to. Except
—

No one was supposed to die.

Two weeks earlier …

Harper burrowed deeper beneath the covers. How was she supposed to sleep with al that banging?

“Come on, Grace, open up.”

Damn her parents. Which part of “I don’t want to see anyone” did they not understand?

“We’re bored,” Kaia complained through the door.

“Come out and play with us!” Kane added, in that little-boy voice most girls found irresistible.

Harper Grace wasn’t most girls.

“Go away,” she shouted, her voice muffled by the pil ow pressed over her head. “Please!”

With that, the door opened—and the covers flew off the bed.

“Time’s up, Grace,” Kane said, flinging away the comforter. “No more feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Screw you. I could have been naked under here!” Harper said indignantly, suddenly realizing that the ratty sweatpants and faded gray Lakers T-shirt was an even more embarrassing ensemble.

“Why else do you think I did it?” Kane asked, chuckling.

How could he laugh?

The three of them had worked so hard to split up Beth and Adam and, for an al too brief moment, they’d final y gotten everything they’d wanted. Kane got Beth. Harper got Adam. And Kaia … got to stir up some trouble, which seemed to be al she needed. But now? Everything had come to light, and gone to shit. They were alone. How could Kane laugh, when Harper could barely stand?

“What are
you
looking at?” Harper snapped at Kaia as she climbed out of bed and wrapped a faux silk robe around herself. She hated the idea of Kaia seeing her bedroom, al the shoddy, mismatched furniture and cheap throw pil ows; compared with Kaia’s surely elegant and unbearably expensive digs, it probably looked like the pathetic “before” shot on one of those lame homemakeover shows.

Harper sighed. Even the prospect of trading insults with her former rival didn’t deliver the jolt of energy it should have—not now that Kaia was one of only two friends that Harper had left. Some friends.

A heartless playboy. A soulless bitch. And me,
Harper thought sourly.

Not quite the Three Musketeers.

“We’re here to cheer you up,” Kane said. “So cheer.”

“Like it’s that easy,” Harper grumbled. Though, obviously, it had been for him.

“We even brought reinforcements,” he added, pul ing a bottle of Absolut from his pocket with a magician-like flourish.

“What, is that your answer to everything?” Harper asked harshly. “If you hadn’t been so drunk last week, and opened your big mouth—”

“Children, children,” Kaia cut in, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Kane’s broad shoulder. “I thought we agreed we were going to move past al that unpleasantness, kiss and make up. Her voice was soft and light, with a razor’s edge—that was Kaia. Beautiful and dangerous.

As if Harper was scared of her.

“I don’t care what we agreed,” she shot back. “If Kane hadn’t opened his big, stupid mouth … if Beth and Adam hadn’t overheard his stupid bragging …” She couldn’t finish.

“And if I hadn’t opened
my
big, stupid mouth, the two lovebirds would be back together right now instead of at each other’s throats,” Kaia reminded her. “But no need to thank me, and no need to blame him. Even if he’s an idiot.”

“Hey!” Kane protested. But he was smiling—the infamous Kane smirk, which not even heartbreak could wipe off his face.