The Lies That Bind

36: It Wasn't Supposed To End Like This

She lied to me.

"Vincent," Cooper said stiffly.

Vincent, cursing viciously from the driver's side of his supersized truck, struggled to fit the keys to the ignition. "I'm trying, I'm trying."

Cooper tapped anxiously on his bracelet. Please, he begged, to anyone who would listen. Please bring her back to me.

The engine roared to life. "Where?" Vincent barked, all business.

Cooper's stomach lurched at the question.

Where are you, Calla?

Maybe she'd gone ahead to Michaels' place without them, or maybe she really had gone to the park and things were just taking longer than anticipated and he was being a complete imbecile. Maybe—

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Cooper nearly vomited right there in the truck.

"Cooper?" Vincent asked tersely, glancing over at him, hands braced against the steering wheel.

Look after each other.

Cooper pictured Calla as he'd last seen her. Those dark, piercing eyes, her work bag slung over her shoulder—

Her work bag.

"The mortuary," he blurted. An educated guess. It wasn't completely isolated, not like some old dusty warehouse, but knowing Calla, she would've wanted to ensure she could conduct her business at least somewhat privately. The park was too public, too open.

He should have guessed she would do this. It was his fault. It was all his fault—

"We'll get there," Vincent promised, grim-faced, as they tore out of the parking lot.

But will we get there in time? Cooper wondered.

Tense as they were, neither one of them thought to bother with the radio, the steady growl of the engine the only sound between them, punctuated by the occasional squeal of tires as Vincent executed a particularly sharp turn. Cooper was grateful for the urgency; he'd half wondered if Vincent would drag his feet getting wherever they needed to go, just to leave Calla to rot—but of course he wouldn't, not even if he wanted to, because they were brothers and Cooper was hurting and when he hurt, Vincent hurt too.

Cooper tapped his bracelet. "ETA?"

"Seven minutes." Vincent glanced at the GPS on his phone. "There's traffic on Cherry Street—"

"Bypass it."

"Can't." He picked up the phone, eyes flickering between the road and the screen. "Or maybe I can? I don't know. I don't know this town—"

"Vincent!" Cooper shouted in the millisecond it took to spot the minivan outside Vincent's window, racing right for the intersection they'd just blown through, completely unaware.

Too late. 

The minivan slammed into the side of the truck, the impact spinning them around, throwing both boys against their seatbelts. Cooper was aware of squealing tires and cracking glass and the putrid scent of burnt rubber and brakes, and then it was over in a blink.

Cooper's hands automatically went for his seatbelt. He couldn't feel a damn thing. That's the adrenaline, he thought, freeing himself with a gasp.

"Vincent—"

"Coop." Vincent looked over and, when he found his friend in one piece, sighed in relief. "Oh, thank fuck."

Cooper looked him over. There was a cut over his right eye, but otherwise—unscathed.

They both turned and stared ahead at the truck's ruined windshield.