Somewhere in the Greenwitch Cemetery, beneath the shade of a magnolia tree, there was a grave.
And in that grave, there was a girl.
This girl had been beautiful once. But the earth and the relentless march of time didn't care for beauty. The earth took what it was owed. And time answered to no one.
Calla Parker knew this. Just as she knew that the girl beneath her feet—the girl that was not a girl, not anymore—didn't give a shit about the bundle of pale pink peonies left atop her headstone. She would have laughed at the flowers. What a waste, she would have said. What's the point? I'm gone.
Gone.
Calla perched against the sun-warmed headstone, trying for nonchalance. The fact that she had to try at all irked her. Indifference had been her constant companion for sixteen years.
But that too had gone, leaving her as brittle as a diseased bone.
Don't let your temper get the best of you.
It was the one piece of advice she'd taken from her ridiculous stint in school-mandated therapy. Dr. Peterson fancied himself a philosopher, and he loved nothing more than to drop nuggets of non-wisdom every chance he could, like "the past is the mold for our future" or "you are not your trauma, but the sum of your decisions". How she'd tolerated those hour-long sessions was beyond her.
Probably because she'd spent most of her time fantasizing about ripping that simpering smile off the good doctor's face.
Yes, Dr. Peterson. We are the sum of our decisions...and I decided to cut a girl's throat. Got any pills for that?
Still. His other mantra had stuck with her. Calla recited the words under her breath, tracing the edge of one of the pink flowers with her fingertip.
"Don't let—"
The petals were so very soft. She wondered who had left the bouquet. A relative?
"—your temper—"
Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The Smiths had never returned from their "temporary" stay in Florida. They had gone for good. Just like their daughter.
"—get the best—"
Cowards.
"—of you."
Calla glanced down at the flower now crushed in her fist. She sighed.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, brushing the crumbled remains into the dead grass. The summer had been a dry one, and the town (apparently) did not consider the parched expanse of lawn at the cemetery a priority.
Squinting up at the clouds, Calla pulled out her phone—don't let your temper get the best of you—and dialed a number she had memorized four days prior.
"Montgomery-Pearson College. How can I help you?" An upbeat voice that she recognized—male, young—answered on the second ring.
Hello, Patrick.
Calla had rehearsed this moment. She'd been calling the office of student affairs every hour, on the hour, for the last four days, all in an effort to familiarize herself with the staff. Alicia (who worked mornings) had been a bust; the old hag had a waspish snap to her voice that was both unpleasant and unhelpful—not an ideal prospect to pry information from. And Meredith (she worked late in the afternoon) had been too...perky.
The sound of her voice reminded Calla of ballerina costumes and obnoxious laughter.
Patrick had the right attitude: upbeat, but forgetful. Calla didn't bother keeping her voice low as she stammered out, "Hi. Hello."
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.
Cooper rolled his eyes from the driver's seat of his odious vehicle. "You're welcome."
Calla fell into the passenger seat and wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"
Cologne, yes. But also—
Vanilla. And hints of lavender.
Calla narrowed her eyes. "Is that perfume?" Cheap perfume, at that. She sniffed, leaning close to Cooper's neck. He shrank away from her.
"Off. Off." He flicked his fingers in her face.
She batted his hand aside, but leaned back all the same. "Are you late because you were on another date?"
He revved the engine. A warning. "Maybe."
Calla quickly assessed his attire: ratty gym shorts and a t-shirt. "Did you wear that?"
"Yes."
"Is Venus dating you out of pity?"
"Ha-ha." The car shot forward, flattening her against the seat.
She snorted, but said nothing else. If he wanted to pursue Vile, Vapid Venus, that was his choice. A poor choice. But a choice, nonetheless.
We are the sum of our decisions, she thought wryly.
Cooper fiddled with the radio dial. "You still haven't said the magic words," he muttered. He stopped on a station with minimal static and held a hand to his ear. Waiting.
Calla gave him a serene smile. "Abra-cadabra."
"Bless you."
She settled back against the headrest and closed her eyes. "Why should I thank you, exactly?"
He heaved a great, dramatic sigh. "For driving your ass around all the time?"
"You're the one—"
"—who insisted on coming along? Yeah." He tsked. "Because you have no sense of propriety."
"Propriety? Someone's been studying for the SAT."
Cooper shot her a dark look. A year ago, he never would have dared.
Calla gave him a long, slow smile, and felt a jolt of satisfaction when he had the good sense to return his attention to the stretch of road that would lead them out of town and into the city.
To keep her hands busy, Calla pulled out her phone and mused over the schedule she'd cajoled out of the impressionable assistant earlier that morning. Human Development, she read, committing the schedule to memory. Anatomy and Physiology. Quantitative Reasoning. Fine and Performing Arts.
"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Cooper asked—for the eleventh time. Calla had kept count since their revelation under the oak tree.
She sighed. "You could have stayed at home."
He ran a hand through his hair—once, twice, three times. His usual pattern. "No. I couldn't."
True enough. He wasn't about to let her go rogue. Not when so much could go wrong.
Calla shot him a sly look. "Then stop questioning it." Stop questioning me, she didn't have to add.
But Cooper had always been one to question. And more often than not, he came to the right answer. That was the part that bothered her—even after all this time.
He sees too much. And still, he doesn't leave.
Their relationship had always been one of necessity, a tentative alliance between enemies. Once that necessity had run its course, she'd expected him to abandon her. To resume the cold distance they'd adopted for so many years.
He will leave you. He will run. And he will never look back.
But that empty voice inside her head had been wrong. Cooper had become a fixture in her life, as Rachel had once been. Calla often spent her weekends on his couch, tucked into Vincent's side while the two boys battled it out in some senselessly violent video game (which she'd grown quite partial to). And even when Vincent couldn't be there—duty calls, he would say, his athletic bag slung over his shoulder—the two of them would watch a movie, or snag a booth at the pizza joint, or take a drive into the city.
Bizarre. That was the only word that could possibly describe their relationship. The fact that they had a relationship at all astonished her.
"So. What's the plan?" Cooper finally asked, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Restless.
Calla's grip on her leather purse tightened. Vincent had given her the bag—soft and practical—as a birthday gift. "I want Astrid to confess."
I want her to know what's coming for her, she didn't say aloud. I want her to see the end, and I want her to fear it. I want her to fear me.
"Easy. Breezy. Beautiful," Cooper muttered under his breath. And then, louder: "And how do you plan on accomplishing that? With your undeniable charm?"
"Obviously."
"Calla."
She blew out a breath, rubbing at the scar on her shoulder absently. "You're chatty today."
He simply waited—a trick he'd learned from her. Damn him.
"Astrid will be in class all morning." Calla gestured to her phone. "I got a hold of her schedule."
"Do I want to know how?"
"Do you need to?"
He waved a hand. "Alas. Continue."
"She takes Quantitative Reasoning and Human Development on Thursdays. Human Development lets out at noon. Room 203." Her eyes drifted to the dashboard—11:27. "We pull up to campus. You stay with the car. And I corner her."
Simple. Effective. Calla marveled at the brilliance of it.
"That doesn't explain how you plan on getting her to confess." Cooper's voice dripped with skepticism. "If she did mur...do it," he fumbled over the word murder, "then it's going to be hell trying to prove it. The county already closed Rachel's case. And Astrid's been pretty tight-lipped since, all things considered. "
"Everyone has their breaking point," Calla murmured, tapping the purse with a finger. If Vincent knew what they were up to...angry wouldn't begin to cover it. "She won't confess. Not today, anyway. But I'm going to wear her down eventually."
Cooper frowned. The plan—if it could even be called such a thing—was flimsy, at best. Even Calla had not managed to arrange all the pieces as she would have liked. "And if she won't be worn down?"
"She will."
I will shatter her into a million pieces and take everything she loves. I'm going to destroy her completely.
Calla closed her eyes, imagining the way Astrid would struggle beneath her fingers. The way her windpipe would convulse, fighting for air. The way her eyes would pop out of her skull—
"She will," Calla repeated, more firmly. This, she was sure of.
Cooper kept pushing, testing the limits of her self-control. "I'll take your word for it. But what if she skipped class? What if she isn't there?" She'd moved into the city, courtesy of her mother and father's bank account. Beyond that, they knew nothing about where to find her.
But Calla had already thought of this. "We try again next week. Catching her on campus is the only way this works. No one will think twice about a couple of seniors checking out a nearby college."
A considering nod. "Okay. Sure. But class starts for us tomorrow. We'll have to ditch school to make this trip again."
They shared a look that said, and what a pity that would be.
"Okay. Alright." Cooper finally relented, shrugging his shoulders. Almost immediately, a fresh thought seemed to occur to him. "And if Astrid does confess? By some miracle?"
Silence. Calla stared out the windshield, analyzing the shapes of the grey clouds high above and stroking the smooth surface of her bag. The leather was unerringly soft. Soft as those flower petals, crushed between her fingertips.
Soft as the skin at Cory's throat—right before she'd ripped it open.
Cooper grunted. As if he, too, imagined the nightmarish scene, and now had the answer to his question.
"You aren't going to try to talk me out of it?" Calla asked, mildly amused. "You'll just stand back and watch?"
He had no answer for her. She could have baited him—could have forced a reaction—but she chose instead to leave him to his thoughts. She would not hold his hand through this. He knew what she was.
He'd known from the start.
They drove on in silence, the air between them charged with static from the radio. Calla kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He ignored her, for the most part. Twice, their eyes met; he quickly looked away, his brows drawn low in worry.
No. Not worry—guilt. He's chauffeuring a psychopath into the city to harass his favorite teacher's daughter.
She should have felt the same guilt. Calla tried to summon a crumb of remorse for her behavior. You're plotting to end this girl's life, she reasoned with herself. That is a bad, bad thing.
And there are many more bad things to come, her darker side snapped back.
"We're close," Cooper muttered, his voice low and tense.
Calla blinked, and Raleigh's skyline appeared all at once out of the haze of her thoughts. Cooper navigated the city with familiar ease; they'd traversed these streets many times over, oftentimes for no reason other than boredom. Calla spotted the hibachi restaurant she, Vincent and Cooper frequented at least once a month. And the little nook on the corner that served the best fajitas in the state.
Her stomach rumbled at the sight.
But they didn't have time for fajitas. Cooper turned a corner, and glassy storefronts gave way to grey brick and overgrown hedges. Calla frowned. "This is the campus?"
Campus wasn't the right word. The jumbled sprawl more resembled a concrete jungle. Cooper shrugged, shoulders stiff.
Calla sighed. "Alright." Her eyes scanned a nearby building. She tapped the window. "Over there. The admissions building."
"Calla." Cooper jabbed a dial on the dashboard, plunging them into speculative silence. The engine wheezed as he pulled into a parking space—but even that sputtered to a halt when he ripped the keys from the ignition. "Are you sure about this?"
Her hold on the satchel tightened. "Why do you care?"
Because I don't want to get involved in some harebrained scheme. Because I don't want to get caught doing something we shouldn't be doing. Because I don't want to dig up the past—let it rest, let it rest, let it rest.
Calla might have accepted any of those answers. Instead, Cooper let out a heavy sigh, and said, "Because if you're sure about this, then I'll let you do what you need to do. Alright?"
I'll let you do what you need to do.
Calla popped open the door and threw him a look over her shoulder. "You'll let me?"
He gave her a weak smile. "I know all your dirty secrets. Don't forget that."
And with that disturbing reminder, Calla stepped outside, slamming the door behind her for good measure.
"I know all your dirty secrets," she muttered under her breath, in a voice that was probably two octaves too high. "Fuck off, Daniels."
Had he meant it as a threat? She contemplated that possibility as she bypassed the admissions office and followed the sidewalk around the corner, where a second, larger building stood vigil.
Cooper is many things, she reasoned with herself. Foolish is not one of them.
And it would be foolish—to threaten her, to threaten the empire of lies that they'd built over the last year and a half. Foolish, because she would have his ass. He knew her dirty secrets, yes.
But I know your dirty secrets too, Coop.
The thought of his turning against her left a foul taste in her mouth. Don't think about it, she commanded herself as she passed an elegant sign proclaiming the brick behemoth as the Otterman Institute of Education and Development. He was probably just pushing your buttons, anyway.
Calla brushed aside thoughts of her neighbor and pushed through the building's double doors. She had to find room 203—not a hard task. It was more a matter of timing her arrival. She couldn't be seen lingering outside of Astrid's classroom, waiting to ambush the girl with a photograph and a string of accusations.
This confrontation required a bit more...subtlety.
Calla found a staircase and slowly made her way to the second floor. She then proceeded to lose her sense of direction: a wrong turn here, a wrong turn there. All the while, she kept in mind her true destination, her impatience growing with each passing minute.
She paused at the end of the hall where Astrid would soon appear, pretending to rifle around in her purse for chapstick. Her fingers brushed the edge of the polaroid she'd found at the bottom of her nightstand earlier that morning. Rachel's bright smile peered up at her, reminding Calla of her purpose here.
The door at the end of the hall burst open. Calla swiped the chapstick across her lips, eyeing the students that flooded into the otherwise empty corridor. Dark braids and bright pink pumps caught her eye.
Astrid Baker. In pink heels, no less.
Calla had expected as much after perusing the other girl's social media accounts for most of last night. Astrid had flourished at the all-girls preparatory she'd transferred to last year, finishing out her high school education far away from the quaint halls of Greenwitch High. Calla had never questioned the move; after all, there had been several other transfers following that shit-show of a school year.
Those were the ramifications of allowing a serial killer to run rampant among the student body.
But the city of Raleigh had been particularly kind to Astrid Baker. She grinned as she waved off a friend—a bright, bubbly blonde that could have been a stand-in for the late and not-so-great Jessica Sneider. Still smiling, Astrid turned and sauntered down the hall, a bag in that same abhorrent shade of pink slung over her shoulder.
She didn't notice Calla. Not at first. By the time she did, it was too late. Calla pushed off from the wall, anticipating the other girl's reaction.
Astrid froze. Her smile disappeared. Calla watched a dozen emotions flicker and gutter in her eyes—fear, surprise, anger, suspicion—before Astrid managed to plaster an unconvincing smile on her face.
"Calla?" she asked. Also rather unconvincingly.
"Astrid." Calla closed the distance between them, moving with ease. "Long time."
"Too long," Astrid supplied. They both knew that no span of time would ever be too long.
Calla did not smile. Astrid shifted from foot to foot, darting a glance over her shoulder. The hall had emptied.
"How have you been?" Astrid asked after an uncomfortable pause. Calla's attention drifted—all the way down to those ridiculous, towering heels.
She won't be able to run in those. Not from me.
Finally, Calla shrugged. "I've been better. Just...missing Rachel, I guess."
The name had the desired effect; Astrid stiffened. Her smile turned wobbly. "Ah. Rach."
Calla pulled out the polaroid in one deft movement. She held it up to the light. "I keep finding random little pictures of her in my things. And you know what? It gets me thinking." She fanned the picture back and forth. "They never did catch her killer. Did they?"
Astrid cleared her throat and tightened her grip on the bag at her shoulder. Her eyes darted from one doorway to the next, as if imagining her escape from this incredibly awkward conversation. "Didn't Cory—"
"He didn't," Calla said simply. As if this were obvious.
Astrid stared at her. And stared. "He did," she finally said, her words sharp.
"I don't think so." Calla's hand dropped back down to her side, though she kept the polaroid firmly clenched between her fingers. "I mean, his prints weren't on the murder weapon."
There it is. The fear had ignited once again in Astrid's eyes. "What prints?"
Not what are you talking about. Not he probably wiped the evidence, his dad could have helped him. Nothing politely confused or thoughtfully constructed. The question was immediate, a knee-jerk reaction.
"The prints," Calla continued, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on. You don't know about the prints?"
"You're full of shit," Astrid hissed. She sounded as she had that day in the church, her voice full of venom as she warned Calla to stay away from Vincent.
"And you're very defensive." Calla cocked her head to the side and allowed herself an indulgent smile. "Something wrong?"
Astrid took a deep breath. It took several seconds for her to compose herself. "Look. I know you miss her—"
"Don't you dare." Calla didn't bother masking the ice in her voice. Not this time. "Don't you dare."
Astrid lifted her chin, wordless but defiant. Calla felt her temper flare. She really would enjoy watching Astrid break beneath her hands.
"You can cut the act," Calla continued, reigning in her anger. "I finally got your texts, you know. Remember those?"
Astrid's eyes had fallen to her polished nails. Feigning disinterest. "Texts?"
"Don't go to the police," Calla recited. "It was an accident."
Astrid shrugged, her eyes still lowered. The urge to rip her eyelids off, to force the other girl to look at her, rose up then, sudden and powerful and consuming. "Oh. Those." She made a noise in the back of her throat. "I just...I thought you knew about the blow. I didn't want you to snitch."
Clever of her. Very clever, admitting to the lesser of two evils.
Calla snorted. "I'm supposed to believe you were all wound up about blow?"
The question dripped with disdain, but for the first time, Calla felt a pinch of doubt. What if this isn't about Rachel at all? she wondered, frustrated. What if I'm wrong about this?
Astrid frowned, mirroring Calla's own uncertainty. "What else would I have been talking about?"
Calla nearly turned around. She could forget this had ever happened. Astrid wouldn't tell a soul—not if she thought there was a chance Calla would drag her name through the mud.
But then their eyes met, and Calla saw the challenge there. Astrid's eyes practically danced with it.
She's toying with me. Fury gripped her, stirring something dark and hungry deep inside her belly. She didn't know about the prints, but she knows if any damning evidence existed, she'd already be behind bars. And she's using that to her advantage.
Calla knew her hunch could be wrong. But she didn't think so.
Not this time.
Calla glanced down at the polaroid crushed between her fingers, searching her friend's face. Rachel's smile was as brilliant as ever, though her eyes were dull. The camera had never been able to capture the spark that lived inside her.
The spark that had been extinguished.
Remember. Those empty eyes gazed up at her. Remember your promise.
"You're right. I do miss her." Calla looked up then. She'd already set her course. There would be no walking away from this. "And I think you killed her," she finished, cutting right to the heart of it.
Astrid didn't react, her dark eyes surprisingly unreadable. A near-perfect mask.
I will break you. The darkness inside her coiled—a snake preparing to strike. And when you scream, I promise there will be no one to save you.
"I really don't care what you think," Astrid blurted. "It's time to move on. Goodbye, Calla."
Her braids swung in a graceful arc down her back as she stormed down the hall, the sharp click of her heels relentless against the tiled floor.
Calla watched her go. The urge to run after her, to leave her lifeless body there in the hall, nearly overwhelmed her. Her hands twitched at her sides. The movement caused the polaroid to slip from her fingers.
Don't let your temper get the best of you.
Astrid disappeared around the corner. And Calla, who had been holding her breath, released it at last.