The Lies That Bind

5: A Fresh Start

Cooper slept on the couch that night. And as he slept, he dreamt.

His dreams were never pleasant, but he'd come to expect that over the last two years. He often relived that night at the mansion, or else he'd find himself wandering some nameless cemetery for hours and hours on end, fearful of the dark and the graves and the dead bodies within them. Other nights, Cooper couldn't tell up from down, left from right. He'd wake trembling, the scar on the back of his hand a searing reminder of all he'd survived and left behind.

That night, it wasn't the mansion he dreamt of, but an open, unmarked grave. Before he could get the nerve to peer inside—to get a good look at the body he was sure he would find within—he woke, heart lodged in his throat.

Another nightmare, was his first, weary thought. Just a nightmare.

Cooper turned over on his side with a groan. Calla's bedroom door stood ajar. He could make out the edge of a bed, a curtained window. Not much else.

He immediately fumbled for his phone, shaking off the lingering shadows of his latest nightmare. Calla had texted him over an hour ago, he realized—something about a shift at the morgue. Don't worry about locking up, her message read. He shuddered at the thought of her among the cadavers.

"I am in such deep shit," he breathed. He pushed himself upright with a groan. "You should've stayed away, Coop. You should've known to mind your own damn business."

He continued berating himself as he gathered his things—phone, wallet, keys. He eyed the cake on the kitchen counter with a smirk. Calla could keep it. Let it serve as a reminder that he would be back.

And he would be back, even if that was madness. But madness or not, he'd already thrown away forty bucks on a stupid ticket to that stupid Halloween party in Rochester. Just to prove a point. To himself. To Calla.

If you're going to be reckless, he'd told her, then you're not going in alone.

Vincent was going to kill him if he ever found out about her harebrained scheme. No. That can't happen, Cooper decided. He slipped out of the apartment, quiet as a ghost. Vincent can never know about this. About the bodies and the blackmail and the rest. Not ever.

Which meant Cooper would have to lie to his best friend. Again.

It would be different this time, he reasoned. Vincent had Nat. Vincent had a future. There were already rumors circulating about his prospects in the NFL, about his draft potential. He couldn't afford a scandal.

Calla Parker was the definition of a scandal. A live grenade, one that would destroy everything and everyone in her vicinity. And Cooper, like the big idiot he was, had volunteered to blast himself to bits right along with her.

He contemplated his own stupidity for most of the drive back to Penn State. Every once in a while, an odd laugh would bubble out of him, and he would question his sanity. But if he'd gone insane, he didn't mind. He felt lighter than he had in ages. Like he actually had something to look forward to.

Which was ridiculous. Surely he could find some other way to occupy his time—ideally something that didn't involve encouraging a psychopath to commit heinous crimes. That would be the rational, moral thing to do. But then...

I wanted to make sure there were no loose ends.

Calla had taken care of him, had cleaned up the mess they'd left behind—years ago now—without complaint. Maybe he owed her this. Maybe—

BANG.

Cooper flinched as black smoke began streaming from the hood of his car. "Shit," he breathed, hastily pulling over along the shoulder of the one-way street that led back to his apartment. He cut the engine and leapt out, shrinking away from the fumes. "Shit."