Cooper Daniels stared down at the murder weapon in his neighbor's sock drawer, wondering—not for the first time—how the hell he'd gotten here.
The world will never know what really happened that night. And I'd like to keep it that way...for now.
The knife stared back at him innocently, all serrated edges and gleaming steel—a stark contrast to the fuzzy green socks shoved in the back corner of the drawer. Cooper knew that knife well. Too well. He knew what it would feel like in his hands.
Just as he knew what it would feel like when he drove it through someone's back.
This isn't the same knife, Cooper reminded himself, slamming the drawer shut. That knife—the one he'd buried in Cory's spine—would have been sealed away in storage, evidence for the gruesome string of murders that had haunted his sleepy town over a year ago.
I can't believe she kept this, he thought angrily. And then, aloud, he hissed, "What is wrong with you?" But his red-headed neighbor, lounging beneath the oak tree outside, could not hear him.
His fingers skimmed the top of the dresser; there was no dust, no spare gum wrappers or hair ties or bejeweled picture frames, or whatever else a normal teenage girl might have accumulated over the years. Because this dresser didn't belong to a normal teenage girl.
Cooper tried the second drawer down. But—nope. T-shirts. No sign of the black notebook he was supposed to be retrieving.
Look in the dresser, Calla had instructed, waving him away with a flick of her fingers, as regal as a queen on her throne—if the tangle of roots she leaned against could be considered a throne. The notebook's in there. Somewhere.
"In there. Somewhere," he repeated to himself, sour. "Very helpful."
Between the three of them—Cooper, Calla, and Vincent, his charismatic best friend—Calla took the best notes. Notes he would sorely need if he wanted to pass the summer reading exam Mrs. Gable would have waiting for them in two weeks' time.
Grumbling, Cooper opened the next drawer—and nearly tore it off its hinges at the sight of all the frilly, lacey things staring back at him.
Wrong drawer. Wrong drawer.
"I have seen too much," he groaned, ignoring the heat in his face as he yanked open the middle drawer, found the black notebook he needed, and left Calla's bedroom as quickly as possible.
Her room unnerved him. It was empty. Immaculate—save for the carefully placed sock in the corner, the shirt draped against the edge of the bed, the slight tilt to her pillows. Intentional mishaps. Clues that were meant to scream I am your average teenage girl.
Cooper might never have noticed. But he knew what to look for.
It was a relief to step out into the blazing summer heat. August had slammed into the town of Greenwitch like a freight train. But the bright sunshine and sweltering temperatures masked the embarrassed flush on his cheeks—which only grew worse as he thought of the pile of lacey underthings buried in Calla's drawer.
He rounded the house. A massive oak tree shaded most of the backyard. And there, sitting on the largest tangle of roots—Calla. Her dark eyes tracked his progress across the yard while her fingers ran through Vincent's sweat-soaked hair, his head in her lap and a book in his hands.
His eyes were closed. Another productive day of studying.
Cooper dropped onto a particularly gnarled root just below Calla. He couldn't help but wonder if she'd chosen the high ground on purpose.
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."
They shared a knowing look. Cooper's eyes slid to the application in Calla's lap, half-buried beneath her planner. His brows furrowed. "Harvard? Seriously?"
She shrugged.
Cooper grabbed the folder tucked inside her backpack and rifled through the variety of brochures she'd collected over the summer.
"Princeton," he read aloud. "Yale. Duke. Notre Dame. Michigan." He frowned. "Alabama?" His eyes slid to hers. "One of these is not like the others."
She snatched the folder out of his hands. "I'm keeping my options open."
"You're applying to the colleges that are recruiting him, aren't you?"
"Options. Open." She gave him a slow, cold smile. "Besides. I saw Michigan and Notre Dame on your list."
He sniffed, suddenly fascinated by the loose thread on his athletic shorts. "Options. Open," he mimicked.
She smacked the back of his head with her planner. Hard enough to hurt.
"Ow." He twisted around, sizing her up. Her saccharine grin made his skin crawl.
Cooper had half a mind to reach over and smack the back of her head—a desire that was clearly written all over his face, given her wicked amusement. He'd gained a whopping two inches on her since sophomore year. Not exactly the impressive growth spurt he'd been praying for, but he'd thought it might even the playing field between them.
He'd thought wrong.
Cooper crossed his arms. Change the subject. Don't rise to her bait. "Got your schedule yet?"
"Worried we'll have class together?" she asked, that grin still in place.
He rolled his eyes. "No." Yes.
In truth, he didn't mind the company. But he did mind the way she tended to distract him in class. And her sly comments rarely went noticed by the teachers.
Calla tossed aside the planner and dug inside her backpack, withdrawing a shiny new computer. As she moved, her tank top shifted, revealing the edge of a pale scar, its jagged edges like that of a star. It was a constant and unpleasant reminder of what she had survived—what they'd all survived.
I didn't know he was there. At the house, she'd told him all those months ago. A lifetime ago. I came there for you.
A gust of wind shook the branches overhead, casting patterns of dappled light across her face. She looked older, Cooper realized. The last year and a half had shaved away the remnants of childhood, showing a whisper of the woman she would one day become.
Cooper's phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket, and his heart leapt at the name on the screen.
Are we still on for tonight?
Flustered—he'd forgotten about his plans for the evening—he replied: Pick you up at 5?
"Who's that?" Calla drawled, her computer whirring as it turned on.
"None of your business."
He felt, rather than saw, her lean forward. And then he heard her sigh. "Oh. It's her."
How could anyone make the word her sound so filthy? "Yes," Cooper said through gritted teeth, shoving his phone back in his pocket. "And her name is Venus. Ve-nus."
Silence. And then—
Calla snorted. "So. That's still happening, huh?"
He sighed. "Yes, Calla. We were still dating when you brought it up last week, and we're still dating now."
A year ago, he would have understood her disbelief. A year ago, he would have laughed at the prospect of taking Venus Upton anywhere—let alone on a date. As his girlfriend.
But everything had changed after that horrific night at the mansion. Apparently, surviving the clutches of a serial killer was a great way to pick up girls. Venus had been one of many who'd rediscovered his existence that dreary spring. The whole thing had been quite mortifying at first: the whispers, the stares, the admiration.
As if he were a hero for stabbing their classmate in the back. A hero—and not a murderer.
He stared down at his phone. Are we still on for tonight? she'd asked. His face heated as he thought of their last rendezvous in his car.
"He's blushing," Calla deadpanned. "How adorable."
Cooper turned to glare at her. "Venus is nice. And we've been dating for six months. Maybe you could start acknowledging her existence."
Calla rolled her eyes. Another blast of wind blew her hair across her face. She swatted it away. "I thought she was a phase."
A phase. How many times had Vincent said the same? Something like anger coiled in his belly. Is it really so hard to believe that I might like someone who actually likes me back?
But he couldn't blame them. Not really. He still couldn't believe it himself.
Cooper lifted his face to the breeze. He decided to ignore Calla's comment. Rise above, he told himself. Rise above. "She wants to plan a six-month-versary. Is that even a thing?"
"Run," Calla suggested seriously, booting up her computer. "While you still can."
Rise above. "That's not very nice."
"I killed Tracy because she had an annoying laugh," she pointed out in a sing-song voice. "That wasn't very nice, either."
Cooper's heart turned to lead in his chest. "That's not funny."
Calla laughed anyway, unperturbed by his sudden shift in demeanor. What else had he expected? He'd long since come to terms with her dark nature—the side of her soul that she kept hidden from the rest of the world.
A side that she kept hidden for good reason.
But despite that, she'd saved his life. And in doing so, she'd forged a bond between them, one born of blood and shadows and secrets.
I came for you. You know who I am. You see me.
I don't want to be invisible.
Her cryptic comments rarely triggered his fight or flight response. He'd grown out of his fear of her. Or so he'd thought.
But in moments like this, he realized how very wrong he'd been to grow complacent in her company. She was savage. Cruel. Her callous, offhand view of the world took his breath away. She would not stifle who she was, not in front of him.
Not when they were alone.
Calla sighed, pulling him from his thoughts. "Whatever. You do you. Go get laid."
"That's not—" he spluttered, indignant. "That is not—"
"Shh-shh." She held up a finger, dangerously close to his lips. "Don't care."
He batted her hand away. "You're an ass." He braced himself against the tree, half-lying there in the shade, the rough bark digging into the exposed skin of his calves. "Just because you're not getting laid—"
"Cooper."
"What?" he asked innocently, batting his eyes up at the patches of blue sky visible overhead. "Are your sensible tastes—"
"Cooper."
Something in her voice made him sit up. He twisted, and their eyes met. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, but her eyes—
They were a void. Cooper shuddered despite the humidity.
Calla turned the computer on her knees. He glanced at the screen, and the string of texts there.
Can we talk?
I'll call you...
Hello?
Look. I know we aren't friends. But it was an accident.
Don't involve the police. Please? Can we talk?
A knot of tension began building in his gut. It felt foreign, out of place. He hadn't felt this way in months. Eighteen months, to be exact.
"Uh, Calla?" He scanned the number at the top of the screen. It was unfamiliar. "Who...?"
But then his eyes fell to the timestamp on those messages. And the tension in his gut—that heavy, unbearable weight—tightened. Bitter fear coated his tongue and drenched the back of his throat.
Old friend, that fear seemed to whisper. I have missed you.
"January twenty-seventh," Calla murmured, her fingers curving over the top of the screen like the talons of some wicked bird of prey.
"January twenty-seventh," he repeated, numb. A night of infamy. A night of pain.
It's just a scratch.
I didn't kill that stupid bitch.
You're no good for her.
Do it.
Monster.
"Calla," he whispered again. "How are you just now seeing these?" For one terrible moment, he imagined she'd kept the messages from him, perhaps in a bid to bury the past.
She wouldn't, he reasoned. She wouldn't keep this from me.
Her fingers convulsed. As if she were imagining those hands, those fingers, wrapping around someone's throat. "I broke my phone that day. Remember? Before I came to the mansion." Her eyes narrowed. "It took two weeks to get a replacement. The messages...they must have gotten buried." A muscle in her jaw fluttered. "I just connected my account to the computer, and it dredged these up."
Cooper tried to piece his thoughts together. "Don't involve the police," he recited slowly. "Why did this person think you would..." He trailed off. Calla watched patiently as he sifted through the fragments of his scattered memories. "Wait. Stephanie. You...you told Stephanie you were going to the police with information. As a bluff. Didn't you?"
He'd never forget that day. That was the day Jessica Sneider had been killed, becoming the fourth victim in a string of grisly murders. It was also the day Vincent had become another target on the killer's list.
Cooper could still see the terror in Vincent's eyes as he began to comprehend the danger he was in. And Calla—he could see the flash of her hair as she disappeared through his front door. Her eyes had been hellfire, full of dark promise.
He hadn't known it at the time, but she would soon make a call to the town gossip that would lead to the very worst night of their lives. A bluff, she'd called it.
"Yes. I did," she said, her voice calm. Steady. Belaying the rage coiling beneath the surface. "I wanted Steph to leak the information, get the killer to act. And he did."
He sure did. Cooper shuddered, his eyes falling to the jagged white scar on the back of his hand. The injury—a macabre six carved into his skin—had left its mark, even after all this time.
A bond born of blood and shadows and secrets...and scars.
"Apparently, Cory wasn't the only one who bought into Stephanie's story." Calla sounded far too composed. "Someone else took the bait."
Cooper's tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused to obey. Someone else took the bait. "Calla. Who sent those texts?"
Her next words were whisper-soft. A sigh in the wind.
"Astrid Baker."