The Lies That Bind

17: Unfinished Business

Calla had not heard from Cooper in three days.

Well. Two days, seventeen hours and some change. But she wasn't about to admit that aloud.

We're more than friends. We've always been more than friends.

The words had been both hers and not hers, because she had no idea where they'd come from—only that they were true, and she was not sorry for saying them. She'd thought, after that conversation, that she and Cooper might finally be able to find a measure of peace together. Happiness, even. At least for a time.

And then the text came in.

Cooper: It's done.

Calla had read and reread that ominous text over a dozen times. But the words never changed. And Cooper never called.

For three days he said nothing more to her and she said nothing more to him, and so Calla waited—and wondered.

She scowled down at her feet as she neared her apartment, her nose raw from the bitter winter air. She could only assume his text meant that he'd successfully found a way to get the poisoned pills to the professor. How he'd done it and why and the ramifications of that decision—those were the questions that plagued her, relentless. She would have liked to ask Cooper for the specifics, but he refused to answer her calls. Refused to speak to her, period.

Ask yourself if this is something you're even capable of. That was what she'd asked of him, and in his own way, Cooper had given her his answer.

And now he hates you. Her lungs burned as she fought to outpace the storm building overhead. He won't come back from this. You've ruined him. You've ruined him and he will hate you forever for it.

No. That was not a possibility—or at least not one she was prepared to consider.

She reached her apartment building just as the skies opened, filling the air with the smell and sound of rain. "It's not like I forced him into anything," she muttered to herself, jamming her thumb against the elevator button. They'd only just fixed the damn thing last week. "He made his choice, not me."

The words tasted like a lie. Calla had backed Cooper into a corner, and he could have no more refused her than she could have refused him, back when he'd first appeared on her doorstep. Bottle of wine in hand, those inquisitive eyes imploring her to let him inside and back into her life.

I didn't know where else to go.

She'd warned him against this path, yes—but she hadn't turned him away. So perhaps his burdens were her burdens, too.

Maybe he's not ignoring me at all. Maybe he's just busy, she reasoned, tapping her foot impatiently as the elevator slowly slid from the first to the second and then to the third floor. Vincent would tell me if there was something seriously wrong.

That, at least, was something for her to hold onto.

The elevator doors opened. Calla stepped out but moved no further, because there, pacing in front of her apartment door, was—

"You," Astrid Baker hissed, whirling around to face the elevator doors—looking very much like a rabbit caught in the farmer's garden.

Calla reigned in her surprise, carefully arranging her expression into one of practiced indifference—though deep down, where she kept the beast under lock and key, an invisible struggle ensued, tearing her in two. 

Kill her now. The nasty, festering thing inside her wriggled and squirmed, demanding to be let loose. Kill her now now NOW.

The logical side of her knew better. She could not kill Astrid. Not here.