The Devil Inside

2: Temper, Temper

The cemetery remained still and silent. The dead would keep her secrets.

"Sorry," she continued, slightly breathless. Play on his sympathy. "Is this the right number for student affairs?"

A rhetorical question. Calla had already confirmed which number she would need to call when she'd researched the college earlier this week.

"Yes," Patrick said brightly.

"Erm." Calla laughed nervously. "I feel so stupid. Okay, so...I can't find my schedule. And I have class in, like, two hours, but I can't remember where I'm supposed to go—"

"No problem, no problem." She could hear his smile on the other end of the line. "You can actually access your schedule online—"

I know, you fool. "Here's the thing," she interjected, apologetic. "I got locked out of the student portal. I swear, I checked my email for the passcode. The temporary one? But it expired, and I don't think I've been given an official student access code? Like, I can't find it. And I can't get into the portal without it, and I know I have assignments due..."

She waited the span of a heartbeat. And then the easy voice was back: "Now that is a problem. Let's see what we can do. What's your name?"

Calla smiled—a baring of her teeth. A warning that the helpful administrator could not detect. "Astrid Emaline Baker."

Hot fury simmered beneath the surface of her skin. Or maybe that was just the summer heat playing tricks on her. Even as she thought it, a bead of sweat rolled down her chest, soaking into the hemline of her tank top.

Patrick started humming on the other end of the line. "Birth date?"

Calla rattled off the date. She even threw in a sorry about this for good measure.

"No problem, no problem." She heard the sharp click of fingers dashing against a keyboard. "And you need your student portal passcode—"

"I really just need a copy of my schedule," Calla said swiftly. Too insistent. Dial it back. "If that's easier? I can figure out the passcode another time."

"Sure thing." Calla imagined his empathetic nod. "Is your email the one on record?"

"I think so?" she asked dumbly, and then provided the email address she'd created over the weekend. A generic account that served a single purpose.

This purpose.

"Huh. It looks like we don't have that email on file. I'll go ahead and make a note about that," he said smoothly.

Calla sighed in mock-guilt. "I'm sorry. I forgot my password to the other account and—"

"No problem, no problem." There was going to be a problem if he said those words again. "What's the new email address, again?"

Don't let your temper get the best of you. Calla repeated the address as calmly as possible. Patrick's upbeat attitude had begun to chafe at her. If she didn't get off this line soon—

"Alrighty," he announced, pleased with himself. "A copy of your schedule is on the way."

"Thank you so much," she gushed, though her expression remained blank.

Patrick laughed. "No prob—"

Calla hung up the phone.

# # #

Two hours later, she stood in her driveway, arms crossed as a familiar, rundown Mustang rolled to a stop just beyond her mailbox.

She strode up to the passenger door and popped it open. "You're late," she announced unceremoniously.