The Devil Inside

1: Under the Oak Tree

He opened her notebook, flipping through the pages until he found the right section. Cooper could feel her eyes on his back. Watching—

"Did you rifle through my panties?"

"No," he croaked. The back of his neck burned.

Calla snickered.

"Oh, shut up," he muttered. After a beat, he asked: "The sock drawer? Really?"

He twisted around to catch her careless shrug. "Where else?"

"It's a bad idea." He turned away, staring down at her neat script. The words were meaningless, lost as he was in a haze of broken memories: the flash of a knife, the crushing dark, a glistening flap of torn flesh—

Calla's voice pulled him from the void. "I've had many bad ideas."

"It's a really bad idea," he pushed.

Why had she kept such a dangerous souvenir to begin with? That weapon could be her undoing—could be their undoing—if it ever got into the wrong hands. For someone so pragmatic, Cooper couldn't help but think the decision had been a massive oversight on her part.

She just had to keep her little trophy, didn't she? The thought left a sour taste on his tongue.

A phone buzzed, breaking him from his dark thoughts—thoughts that he normally kept shut in a shoebox under his bed. With the pictures. With the memories. With the horrors of all he had survived as a gangly, uncouth sixteen-year-old.

The school psychiatrist had urged him to discuss this trauma during their hour-long sessions—the sessions that the board of education had forced him to attend for the remainder of his sophomore year. But no matter how Dr. Peterson pushed and prodded, Cooper had kept his silence. He had nothing to say.

Because he had too much to say.

Cooper glanced over his shoulder. Vincent had woken from his stupor, and now had his phone at his ear and a frown on his face. While Cooper had suffered three long months in school-mandated therapy, Vincent had weaseled his way out after two weeks. An athlete's privilege. Coach Pratt would sooner throw himself off a cliff than let his star player waste away in a windowless office during "prime practice time".

"Okay," Vincent sighed, hanging up the phone. He shot them both a wistful look. "Recruiters."

"LSU?" Cooper asked, frowning. Vincent had many admirers. It was hard to keep track of them all.

"Alabama." He grabbed his athletic bag, throwing his book—and a stack of college brochures—inside. "Sorry. Can we—"

"We'll finish up applications tomorrow," Calla promised him, her pen hovering over her planner.

Vincent threw her a grateful smile, kissed her cheek, and loped toward the driveway—and the monstrous truck parked there, its wheels gleaming distractingly in the early afternoon sunlight. The truck had, according to Vincent, been an "early birthday surprise" from his father.

Which was absolute and utter bullshit, considering Vincent's birthday had been all the way back in March. He'd only just gotten the truck at the start of summer—right around the time the recruiters had come knocking.

Birthday gift, my ass. More like a bribe.

The engine growled as Vincent started it up. He threw them one last wave through the windshield and then he was gone, disappearing in a cloud of black smoke. Environmentalists everywhere wept.

Calla shook her head. "I can't believe they gave him that thing."

"I can't believe he can drive that thing."