Calla stepped outside to a pleasant surprise: the relentless heat had finally abadated.
It's about time. October had fallen hard and fast, bringing with it the hope of cool air and blue skies. And finally—finally—the town had gotten its wish.
Calla took a deep breath. She wasn't sure what had driven her outside. Cooper wasn't due for another twenty minutes.
Maybe it was the dream, she mused.
Calla rarely dreamt. When she slept, she slept soundly. But last night had been different. She'd been plagued by strange images—some of them memories, others fantastical nonsense that her imagination had conjured. Rachel had been there, laughing on her bed. Except her bed was different from the one she'd known; this bed was outfitted with dinosaur-themed sheets.
And then the dream had shifted. Rachel evaporated in a puff of smoke. Calla stood alone in the woods—the same place she'd visited in her dreams at the hospital. Blood smeared the base of the tree to her left. Cory was nowhere to be found, though his voice still managed to fill her head with poison.
My love for her is so great, that if all the leaves on the trees were tongues, they would not be able to express it.
Calla had woken then, the words of a dead boy ringing in her head. Something about the dream had unnerved her. It reminded her of the empty room.
Calla shook off the remnants of the dream and walked to the old oak tree at the back of their property, navigating its tangled roots with ease. She sat, rough bark biting at her skin, her clothes. Her eyes wandered to the spot where she'd once half-buried the mangled body of Cooper's black cat.
What had he called it? Mr. Cat? Mr. Kitty? She snorted at the absurdity of it.
She'd been just a child back then, sweaty with nerves as she washed the blood off the kitchen knife in the sink. Her heart had been racing—not with dread, but with exhilaration. She'd done something terrible. She knew she'd done something terrible, something that her mother would have never forgiven her for.
And she'd gotten away with it.
Only the boy next door had ever known the truth of it—that the little girl who lived down the road was not a little girl at all, but a beast with black eyes and a black heart, if even she had one.
A wolf in sheep's clothing. He'd been right about her from the first.
Calla leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree, speculative. She hadn't enjoyed the cat's squirming—she remembered that much. And the noises...she'd never known something could be so loud. She'd felt a wild rush of panic in that moment, her hands buried in the cat's fur. What if her mother caught her? What then?
But mingled with that panic had been a cold, clinical sort of fascination. All of it warring within her at barely seven years old.
One thing had been absolutely certain. As she stood there at the kitchen sink, watching the blood disappear down the drain, she'd felt alive. The entire ordeal had lasted less than ten minutes, but it had chased away the growing emptiness inside her. An emptiness born of suffocation, because she could not be what she was. She had built a wall—had donned a mask—to survive in the world.
That burden was far too much to bear, too much to ask of a child. And it was exactly what had driven her to take that knife.
She'd never known what sort of darkness lived inside her. Not then, and not now. She only knew that it was there. Waiting. Watching.
Her constant companion.
The laughing boy—the one with the golden curls—popped into her head then. Another memory, hovering just beyond her reach. Just like the cat, darting away from her sticky fingers.
But I caught you in the end. Didn't I, Mr. Kitty?
A familiar roar drew her eyes down the road. Cooper's Mustang barreled down the street toward her, black smoke drifting out of the exhaust pipe. She pushed herself to her feet and ambled back to the driveway, picking up her backpack from the front porch along the way.
Maybe I'll cut a line somewhere in that rusted old engine, she thought, watching as Cooper and his godforsaken car rolled to a stop. That'll force him to get something tolerable...
She dropped into the passenger seat without preamble, her foul mood permeating the air. Her eyes automatically drifted to the rearview mirror, as they tended to. Cooper had managed to reattach the mirror with an unholy supply of duct tape. The sight always made her smile.
It did not make her smile today.
Cooper glared at her, and then at the rearview mirror, stroking the dashboard with a tender caress. As if the hunk of metal actually had feelings.
"Get a move on," she ordered, folding her arms over her backpack. "I had to cancel a date for this."
Vincent had taken it well enough, but she'd heard the disappointment in his voice as she called off their plans. She knew he loathed that house of his—mostly because of his despicable father. Their movie date would have been the perfect excuse to escape for a few hours.
But she had things to do. Murders to solve. Killers to catch. The movies would just have to wait.
"You aren't the only one who had plans," Cooper mumbled, scowling at the road. Even as he said it, his phone gave a loud, accusatory buzz. He snatched it out of the cupholder and silenced it.
She snorted. Right. Venus. "Did you two make up?"
"Sort of." He hesitated. "Well. Not really. We were supposed to meet up today to talk."
"Your girlfriend hates me."
"We have that in common."
"I think she's jealous," Calla mused, somewhat humored by the thought.
"Jealous?" Cooper's scowl disappeared. He looked at her, bewildered. "Great. What is it now?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean by now? Trouble in paradise, Coop?"
He turned away, jaw tight. A minute passed. And then another. They'd just turned off the main road when he finally said, "She gets weird sometimes. About Rachel."
"Rachel's dead," Calla said flatly. And then she thought of the park bench. Anger twisted in her belly. Rachel's dead, she said again, this time to herself.
"I know." His words were a low mumble. Contrite. Did he regret bringing it up?
"You certainly had better taste back then," she said unkindly, unclipping her seatbelt as they approached the Diner.
Cooper pursed his lips, but otherwise didn't rise to the bait.
They found a parking spot in record time; the Diner was relatively empty at this time in the afternoon, but the sound of conversation still filled the air, along with the smell of burgers and fries. Calla's stomach rumbled. The food here was abhorrent, but her body didn't seem to care at the moment.
Behind the counter, a woman with grey hair and kind eyes waved at them both. Cooper greeted her by name, of course. Calla tuned them both out, grabbing a stool at the end of the counter and slinging her backpack on the seat beside her.
She immediately started rifling through its contents. She'd spent the entire night printing copies of the case file; her bloodshot eyes were a testament to that. It would have been simpler to use the original, but she refused to tote something that valuable around—especially not to this grease-infested pigsty.
Cooper disappeared into the kitchens. Wasting no time, Calla withdrew a stack of pages and planted her elbows on the counter with a weary sigh.
She'd just started skimming over a preliminary report when Cooper reappeared, sporting a tacky green apron that didn't suit his complexion at all. He leaned against the counter, sour-faced. "So. How are we supposed to find the information we need?"
"With our eyes," she said dully. "Don't you have tables?"
"Don't you have tables?" he mimicked, slamming a bucket of silverware on the counter. Calla didn't so much as flinch. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's dead in here. No pun intended."
Calla sighed.
"Seriously. The newbies can handle it," he insisted, analyzing a half-washed fork with distaste.
"Fine." She pulled out another stack of papers and tossed them into the bucket. "Look through those."
They worked in silence, for which she was grateful. Cooper occasionally retreated back into the kitchens, apparently on the assumption that he was, in fact, supposed to be working. He insisted that the manager for today's shift wouldn't care one way or the other—the woman had a soft spot for him, and the restaurant really was a graveyard, puns or no—but that didn't stop him from throwing nervous glances over his shoulder every three minutes.
His nerves made her skin crawl. She was just about to reach across the counter and throttle him when he jolted, as if waking from a deep sleep.
"Here," he blurted, shoving aside his bucket of silverware. He slid two pages across the counter and tapped a familiar name in the upper lefthand corner. "It's some sort of interrogation report." He glanced over his shoulder. "Check the name. It's—"
"Astrid. I can see that," Calla muttered, scanning the pages. The report had been drawn up in December—not even two weeks after Rachel's death. "This was around the time they brought us into the station for questioning."
Cooper grimaced at the unpleasant memory. "Yeah. Guess they brought in a lot of people for questioning."
"'I have no idea where she went off to,'" Calla read, trailing her index finger across the page. "Astrid's talking about Rachel here."
"The night...the night of the gala?" Cooper asked. Not the night she was murdered?
Calla nodded. "Yes. 'I was with my boyfriend the entire night', Astrid says. I doubt that's true..." She trailed off. "Here. Detective Michaels was the one interrogating her. He tells her that Gareth claimed they only spent part of the dance together. 'Your boyfriend remembers things a little differently. He says you two had an argument, and then you disappeared.'"
"Yikes." Cooper's brows lifted. "Gareth threw her right under that bus. That's cold."
"Well. They supposedly got into it at the dance. He probably wasn't feeling very charitable at the time." Calla sat back. "You said the detectives were trying to work through conflicting testimony when they brought you in for questioning, right? Stories that didn't match up." She folded her arms. "I suppose this qualifies. He said, she said."
"So." Cooper rolled a spoon between his fingers. "It's pretty clear that Gareth and Astrid were definitely not together around the time of the murder." He dropped the spoon back into the bucket of silverware. "That's not very helpful. Did Astrid say where she disappeared to, per chance?"
Calla glanced back down at the report. "She claims she doesn't remember. And I quote: 'I mean, I was with my boyfriend most of the night. I guess I went to the bathroom at some point. But that was...before. I was trying to look for my friend. Jessica.'" Calla scowled. "Come to think of it, Steph was looking for Jess that night, too. She said Jess was torn up about something."
Cooper rolled his eyes. "Uh, yeah. She was torn up about getting caught with her boyfriend's twin brother. Cue the world's smallest violin."
"In other words," Calla said, moving the pages onto their read and reviewed pile, "no one has a solid alibi."
"Which we already knew," Cooper pointed out, picking up another stack of documents. He licked his thumb and started leafing through the pages. "The original six were suspects for a reason."
She sighed. "Alright. Let's keep looking—"
"Hold on." Cooper pulled out a page with a flourish. "Jackpot. Check this out. Forensic pathology." He waved the piece of paper in the air between them. "That's important, right?"
Calla reached across the counter and snatched the paper out of his hands. He let her, muttering something about coffee under his breath; in the next second he was gone, hurrying to the opposite end of the counter, his hands in his hair.
Calla scanned the page. Cooper had been right; this wasn't an official coroner's report. She supposed that would have been too much to hope for. But it was a forensic pathology write-up.
A final diagnosis for one Miss Rachel Smith.
A few key phrases had been highlighted throughout the text, no doubt by the detective that had come before her.
Positive blood and urine toxicology, she read. Cocaine metabolites detected. Presence of significant trauma. Mild postmortem changes (including presence of postmortem urine alcohol).
She didn't notice Cooper's return until he slid a cup of black coffee across the counter, right next to her elbow. "Find anything?" he asked, his voice unbearably soft.
She shrugged, but the movement felt stiff, even to her. "They found alcohol and traces of cocaine in Rachel's system. So. Now we know for sure." She spread her hands. "That's why she was alone that night, back at the bathrooms."
Cooper said nothing else. She couldn't get a read on his mood—a first.
Cocaine metabolites detected. The words played on a loop in her head. Presence of significant trauma.
Calla stared down at the write-up, but she wasn't really taking it in. Her mind kept wandering elsewhere—to dark rooms in dark houses, to blood-soaked carpets and ballerina costumes, to fairytale books and puzzle pieces...
I really don't care what you think. Snippets of her last conversation with Astrid taunted her. It's time to move on.
A fool. Astrid had been a fool to think that Calla would let this go. She wouldn't move on.
She couldn't.
"Calla." Cooper's voice was a breathless whisper. "Get behind the counter. Now."
She looked at him blankly. "What?"
He pointed to her shoulder. No, not her shoulder—to something over her shoulder. She twisted around, scanning the Diner. "What? Where's the fire?"
"Just get behind the counter." His face was pale.
Calla might have questioned him further, but the urgency in his voice alarmed her. He scooped up their pile of documents while she grabbed her backpack. She hurried around the counter, Cooper waving her forward impatiently.
"What is going—Cooper," she hissed as he gripped her by the arm and dragged her back into the kitchens. His strength surprised her.
She glanced over her shoulder. They were alone. Behind them, the dishwasher puffed out a steady cloud of steam. Somewhere around the corner, out of sight, she heard the sound of laughter and clattering dishes.
"Cooper—" she tried again.
"Shh." He held a finger to her lips and peered through the kitchen door's grimy window. "Shit."
"What is it?" Calla asked against his finger.
He waved her off, his attention elsewhere.
Impatience bubbled to the surface. She grabbed his finger and gave it a twist. He buckled at the knees, whispering a string of curses until she released him.
"Ow," he complained, shaking out his hand. "Are you trying to break my finger?"
"If I was trying to break your finger, your finger would be broken." She shoved him aside and peered through the window. Her blood went cold.
Tom Sahein stood uncertainly at the hostess station just inside the front door, clutching the camera around his neck as if his life depended on it. Her eyes narrowed.
A far taller, far broader boy stood to his left. Calla immediately recognized him—the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. The letterman jacket.
"Vincent," she breathed. "What are those two doing here?"
She pulled away to brace herself against the wall. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't need to hide away like this. But she'd called off their date to be here. Vincent wouldn't understand. And if he caught wind that she'd blown him off to hang out with Cooper...well. He'd jumped to conclusions before.
"Maybe Vincent needed a tutor." Cooper sounded hopeful. Far too hopeful.
Tom and Vincent. Vincent and Tom. Together. As far as she knew, the two of them had never even had a conversation.
Until now.
Calla slid to the floor, her head in her hands. "This isn't a coincidence, Cooper. Tom's been digging for answers about what went down at the mansion. And he isn't getting those answers from you, so he turned to someone else."
"Fuck." Cooper followed her lead, clutching the stack of papers to his chest as he lowered himself onto the grimy floor. "I told you this would come back to bite us," he mumbled.
She was about to ask what the hell he meant by that—but she already knew.
We underestimated him once, Cooper had told her, long ago. He's smart, Calla. He's going to figure it out. One way or the other.
Damn Vincent. Damn Vincent and his damn curiosity.
"What does he know?" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "What does he suspect?"
Cooper ran his hands through his hair. One-two-three. "That room we were locked in at the mansion wasn't soundproof. There's no telling what Vincent heard that night. And Cory...he wasn't exactly worried about keeping his voice down, was he?"
Calla quickly ran through the events of that disastrous night. She'd locked the boys—Cooper and Vincent—inside that room on the third floor for good reason. Cooper, because he would have gotten in her way. And Vincent...
Because he's smart. Because if given the chance, he would have learned the truth.
She hadn't given him that chance. Or so she'd thought.
"But why now?" she asked, mostly to herself. "If Vincent had his suspicions...why not look for answers sooner? It's almost been two years."
Cooper cleared his throat, dragging her back from her wild thoughts. "I don't know. But I, uh...I might know at least one thing Vincent overheard that night at the mansion. It could be why he's so interested in what Tom has to say."
Calla closed her eyes. "What?"
"Uh..." He cleared his throat again. "Well. I may have, um...made a tiny slip-up." She cracked her eyes open. He raised his hands in defense. "It was an honest mistake. I'd just been knocked unconscious, alright?"
"What," she enunciated slowly. "Did. You. Say."
Cooper leaned back against the wall and drew up his knees, defeated. "We were trying to figure out how to bust out. Before you showed up. And Vincent kept asking all these questions...and I...I might have mentioned how many people Cory had killed." He swallowed. "Just...just in passing. I said he'd only killed three people."
Jacob. Rachel. Jessica. Calla took a deep breath, trying to keep her temper in check. "Vincent probably didn't notice something like that."
"He noticed," Cooper said dully, gesturing to the kitchen door. "Obviously. This little pow-wow can't be a coincidence, like you said. Tom's been asking all these questions, and now..."
And now he found someone who wants answers. Someone who may have enough pieces to put the whole thing together.
Calla took another deep breath. "Cooper."
"You should go." He pushed himself to his feet. "Look. I know I fucked up—"
"That's putting it mildly."
He folded his arms. "Hey. I'm not the one who murdered someone in cold blood. Which, by the way, got us into this mess—"
"Fine." She stood, her temper still dangerously close to the surface. She risked one more glance at the window, but Vincent and Tom had already been seated, somewhere out of sight. "Is there a back door I can use?"
Cooper led her through the kitchens. A couple of men—older, both with graying hair—stood at the stove. They stared at her as she walked by, openly curious. She just hoped the old bastards could keep their mouths closed. The last thing she needed was a wild rumor starting about Cooper Daniels and Calla Parker having some sort of illicit rendezvous at the Diner.
"Here," Cooper muttered, shouldering open the back door. The metal hinges gave way with an almighty screech. He held it open for her, stony-faced.
Calla slipped out of the Diner without another word.