February passed in a hail of ice and bitter wind. Record lows, the weathermen boasted, preening at their cameras. A historic winter.
Calla didn't mind the cold, save for the old injury at her shoulder. The temperature would drop, drop, drop—forty then thirty then twenty. And when that happened, her shoulder would ache something fierce. Cooper never spoke the words aloud, but she knew the freezing temperatures pricked at his scar, too. She'd catch him out of the corner of her eye, rubbing the back of his hand with a grimace. As if he could still feel the bite of Cory's blade, the steel carving through his skin like so much butter.
But the cold could not last. If she was relentless, time was more relentless still. February gave way to March, and a hush of excitement settled over the senior class.
Graduation was coming.
The little reminders hounded her. A sign here. An email there. Don't forget to order your gown, her mother scolded her each morning. Until finally, she had the thing in her hands—five feet of black polyester. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost pretend it was silk.
But it was not silk, and it never would be. She'd shoved it in the back of her closet, unsatisfied.
"Have you decided where you're going yet?"
Calla pulled her textbook from her locker. Her final semester of highschool was riddled with electives to pass the time, with an advanced chemistry course tacked on to give credence to her exceptional academic performance.
Stephanie hovered at her side. Calla shut her locker and turned with a shrug. "Not yet."
"Princeton," Stephanie muttered. "I can't believe you got into Princeton. And Harvard."
"And Yale, too." Calla twirled away, dancing to no music but her own. A death march.
Stephanie followed her with a laugh, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Smart ass."
"That's the idea."
The two continued down the hall, smothering their antics to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. The seniors were usually allowed some license at this time of year, given their impending freedom. But there was always one teacher waiting in the wings, ready to tear down any spark of happiness to spread the misery of their own lives.
As they walked, they passed a number of seniors lingering in the hall. Vincent was among them. A flock of girls had gathered around his locker, gushing about which university he would commit to.
"Ah." Stephanie steered Calla in the opposite direction. For once, Calla was grateful for the other girl's intervention. "How's that going?"
News of their breakup had spread like wildfire over the last few weeks. Which was odd, considering there'd been no official split between them. Vincent had never said the words, and neither had she—we're over, we're through, goodbye. But the rumors were true enough, she supposed.
There would be no fairytale ending here. Vincent had seen the wolf for what it was, and he'd left her to rot in the dark wood, red cloak and all.
"I'm fine," she insisted. At Stephanie's skeptical look, she huffed. "Really. I am. It was a mutual thing."
"Vultures," Stephanie said over her shoulder. But they were too far gone for his admirers to hear. "Do they really think they're gonna snag him before he graduates?"
Calla forced a smile. And not because she was suffering on the inside, as many girls would be after losing the one they'd loved. She was just so tired of it all. The questions. The concern. And of course, the assumptions.
She knew what they said behind her back. That he'd ditched her. That his sights were already set elsewhere, on the countless girls waiting for him at college.
If only they knew the truth.
He wasn't strong enough for me, she wanted to say. He was too soft for my world.
But their words were only superficial wounds. They pricked at her pride—nothing more, and nothing less. She had endured worse.
It had taken her by surprise, how easy it was to let him go. She'd expected a breakup to involve more...theatrics. A few tears. Maybe even a late night text or two. Rachel had certainly caused a scene after her breakup in the eighth grade, all for some boy named Jared.
But Calla had survived death and the obsessions of a killer. She certainly wasn't going to crumble over some boy she'd given her body to. This miserable town didn't deserve such a spectacle.
"Like I said. I'm fine." Calla paused outside of her classroom. "Any news?"
She asked the same question every day. And every day, the answer remained.
Stephanie hesitated. "Actually..."
Calla gripped her forearm. "Tell me."
"He's awake." Stephanie was smiling. "Mrs. Greenfield told me."
Hope—bright and hot and furious—seized her.
"I gotta go." Stephanie tossed a hand over her shoulder. The bell would be ringing soon, and seniors or not, they still had classes to attend. "I'll update you after school."
Calla leaned against the wall, ignoring the voices that drifted from inside the classroom. He's alive. He's awake. She closed her eyes and smiled.
Tom Sahein, the boy who had been a thorn in her side for so many months. Awake at last. And maybe, if she were so lucky, he would have answers for her.
A locker closed nearby. Calla opened her eyes to find a familiar figure skulking down the hall, his head bowed beneath his hood. Deep in her belly, the beast flicked its tail, amused.
"Blake," she called, shoving away from the wall.
He startled at the sound of his name. He'd been avoiding her like the plague for weeks now. On the rare occasion their eyes would meet, he'd find a way to lose himself in the crowded halls. And that was only when he was at school. Half his classes were held over at a technical institute in the city, where he was working overtime to earn credits toward his degree.
"Calla." He managed to make her name sound utterly undesirable.
She smiled at him. He wasn't fooled.
"I've been meaning to talk to you." She hovered in front of him, poised to strike a verbal blow. "Tom's awake."
His gaze darted away from hers. "I heard."
And you seem so very thrilled by the news, she thought. "Blake. About that night, at the party..."
"I've got to get to class."
He tried to sidestep her, but she blocked his path. Calla's smile withered away to nothing. "I'm not stupid, you know. You found something on Steph's computer. Didn't you?"
His jaw tightened. He looked her over, as if deciding what sort of threat she might pose if provoked.
You have no idea.
"I told you what I found," he said slowly. Carefully. "If she has dirt on us, it's not on that computer."
Liar. The accusation lodged in her throat.
After another tense moment, he swept past her and never once looked back. It was as though they'd never spoken at all.
# # #
The next forty-eight hours were agony.
"You have to be patient," Cooper cautioned her on the phone one night. She could hear the sound of gunfire in the background—one of his silly little games. "We can't seem overeager to talk to him. The guy just woke up from a coma after getting shoved down a flight of stairs."
"Allegedly shoved," she corrected him.
She could practically hear the roll of his eyes. "Yeah, well. You and I both know better than that."
"What if he doesn't remember anything at all?" she demanded, irate. She'd spent the last hour pacing the length of her dark room with only the light of the full moon to see by, scowling down at the carpet. "What if he already told the police what he knows?"
"Calla," Cooper said, exasperated. "There's nothing we can do. Tom isn't going anywhere. You heard what the nurses said. We have to let him rest—"
"He can rest when he's dead," she snapped, turning to her window. She brushed aside the curtains and glared across the field, to the apartment complex beyond—and the speck of light on the second floor she knew to be Cooper's bedroom window. "I'm happy to help arrange the funeral, if it'll get him to talk."
"How thoughtful of you."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." He sighed. "Can you please get some sleep? We'll try again tomorrow." And then he hung up on her.
She threw her phone on the bed. Took a deep breath. Exhaled.
Sleep, she thought, looking back at her bed. Trepidation rooted her to the spot. She should sleep. But she knew if she closed her eyes, the boy with golden curls would find her. Or else it would be Rachel and her sad smile, or Tracy laughing manically from her grave. Cory might even make a reappearance, if only to lure her into the woods—where he might be reunited with her once more.
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.
She closed her eyes and pressed her palms to her temple. Sleep, she commanded. Her feet moved of their own accord, drifting to the bed. She crawled beneath the covers, cocooning herself in their warmth. And still she shuddered.
"Rachel is dead," she whispered into the darkness. "Tracy is dead. Cory is dead."
The golden boy flashed behind her lids. There and then gone.
"You're dead, too." She curled into a ball and slowly exhaled. "They're all dead." A minute passed, followed by another. "I am Death," she mumbled.
And I make all equal.
# # #
Calla woke with the rising sun. And with it, she found their fortunes improved.
"Sure, sweetheart. Tom can take a couple visitors today." The receptionist sighed into the receiver. "What time do you want to drop by?"
Calla sat upright, running a hand through her tangled mass of curls. "Um. Ten?"
"I'll let the nurses know," the receptionist said. Calla ended the call with a triumphant grin. At last. At last.
By nine o'clock, she could wait no longer. She shrugged into an oversized sweater and snatched her leather bag from its spot on the dresser. "Mom?"
Rosalind was standing over a pot of coffee in the kitchen. She smiled at her daughter's enthusiastic entrance. "You're up early."
"I'm gonna drop by the hospital. Tom's taking visitors now."
Her brows lifted. "That's nice of you."
"I'll be back," Calla called over her shoulder, rushing out the door before her mother could get a word in edgeways.
Despite the turn in the weather, the mornings were still brisk. Calla shuddered as she jogged across the field and up the apartment stairwell. By the time she reached the Daniels' front door, her face was flushed with cold.
Cooper's mother answered the door. "Calla!" She wrapped her in a friendly embrace. The woman had always been so...pleasant. "Come in. Cooper's still asleep, I think." She scowled playfully. "Lazy boy."
Calla gazed down the hall. "Do you mind if I...?"
"Better you than me," Amelia joked, winking as she returned to the living room and settled in on the couch. The kitchen reeked of eggs and bacon. Calla's stomach rumbled, but she ignored it, padding silently down the hall. She paused at Cooper's door.
He's going to kill me, she thought gleefully, edging the door open a crack with the toe of her sneakers. "Good morning, sunshine."
Her eyes latched onto the bed, where a familiar lump sprawled across on the mattress. Cooper didn't stir.
Rolling her eyes, she flung the door open and trooped inside, letting the light from the living room wash over his things. The posters on the walls. The computer on his desk. She surveyed the array of sticky notes plastered there: nonsensical strings of letters that were most likely passwords to various accounts.
Left out for any unsavory psychopath to find, she thought, clucking her tongue at the naivety of it.
Cooper slowly rolled over, bleary-eyed. "What...?"
Calla planted her hands on her hips. "Are you going to sleep all day?"
From the living room, Amelia laughed.
"I—excuse me." Cooper sat upright, the covers bundled around his waist. "This is a major party foul. You're trespassing."
"Which is the worst of my crimes, I assure you."
He squinted at her, as if trying to convince himself he wasn't dreaming. She approached him and smacked him in the head. "Wake up."
"Ow." He rubbed the spot where she'd hit him. "Okay. I'm awake." He glared at her. "Out. I need to shower."
"Hurry up, then. Tom's taking visitors."
His eyes widened. "Seriously?"
She flounced out of the room. "Hurry," she repeated, before leaving him to his morning routine.
It took him less than ten minutes to shower and dress, for which Calla was grateful. In that time, Amelia had managed to force feed her three slices of bacon and a piece of toast with jam. Cooper emerged to find her eating said toast, a smug smile on her face.
"Where's my breakfast?" Cooper grumbled.
His mother fluffed his hair. "Early bird gets the worm. It's good of you, to visit that poor boy."
He stretched his arms over his head, apparently still half-asleep. Calla shifted from foot-to-foot, restless. He caught the movement, rolled his eyes, and snatched a slice of toast from the counter. "Alright. We'll be back in a little while."
Amelia kissed his cheek—and surprised Calla with another lingering hug—before sending them on their way. Cooper yawned as they descended the stairs and made for his car, still slick with early morning dew.
"I can't believe you broke into my apartment," he grumbled, sliding into the driver's seat.
Calla bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet while he leaned forward to unlock her door from the inside. "It's not breaking in if your mother opens the door, dumbass," she said, falling into her usual seat.
He shook his head. "It's too early for this. Let me power up on the drive over."
Indeed, they spent the drive across town in silence—Cooper staring blearily at the road ahead, while Calla tapped her fingers across her knees in an impatient rhythm. Tap-tap-ta-tap. Tap-tap-ta-tap. It was only once they'd arrived at the hospital that she finally forced herself to shake off the nervous energy that had been building in her system over the long hours of the morning.
Tom is awake. Tom remembers. She repeated the words to herself as they took their seats in the waiting area. Perhaps if she wished it so, it would be true. Tom is awake. Tom remembers. Tom is awake. Tom remembers. Tom is—
"Someone's in a good mood this morning," Cooper observed. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
Tom is awake. Tom remembers. "You should enjoy it while you can. My good moods never last long."
"Oh, believe me. I know."
A nurse came to collect them then. Cooper followed a step behind as they were led to a room near the back of the hospital, which was just as cold and white as it had ever been.
"He'll be glad for the company," the nurse explained, scratching absently at the mole on her chin. Calla snuck a glance into each room they passed. Many were empty. Greenwitch was a town with limited resources, which meant the hospital mostly handled minor accidents or, in Tom's case, critical cases that otherwise couldn't risk relocation.
"Yeah," Cooper muttered under his breath. "I'm sure he'll be leaping for joy when he sees us."
Calla stifled a grin.
"Still. I'm afraid this will have to be a short visit." The nurse paused outside of room 009 and gave them both an apologetic smile. "He's been through quite the ordeal."
"Of course," Calla said graciously, and the nurse ushered them inside. Room 009 looked just like the others: small and square and miserable, save for the pile of flowers in the far right corner. Calla spotted roses and lilies and—she gritted her teeth—a bouquet of peonies. Get-well-soon cards littered the bedside table.
"Tom." The nurse stepped forward. "You have visitors, dear."
Calla found him sitting upright in his hospital bed, a line of tubes feeding into his left arm—the other was fully encased in plaster, along with his leg. His face registered no surprise at their arrival. "You came."
He'd been expecting them, then. Perhaps he wasn't half so dull as he looked.
The nurse ambled around the room—checking his vitals and softly nudging pots of oversized flowers out of her path. Calla counted the seconds as they passed, broken only once Tom cleared his throat. The effort seemed to cost him greatly.
"They told me I was out for nine weeks. What did I miss?" His question hung in the space between them. A challenge.
Rather than answer, Calla drifted over to the pile of mismatched flowers on the other side of the room. She absently stroked one of the peonies. The place smelled much as it had during her brief stay two years ago—like antiseptic and sweet decay. The lilies looked fresh enough, she thought. But the roses were wilting with age. How long had people been sending in their pitiable floral arrangements? Eight weeks? More?
"You didn't miss much," she said at last. "A few homework assignments. Nothing you won't be able to make up."
"That's good to hear." Tom was squinting at her. He looked strange without his glasses—younger, somehow. She stepped closer, into his line of sight. "But how are things?"
A pointed question. She perched on the edge of his bed, ignoring the tart look the nurse gave her. "Steph's keeping things together over on the yearbook committee," she said breezily, keeping a sharp eye on his expression, trying to note any small shift or change that could be significant. "And Mike is...well, he's still Mike. Cracking jokes when he can."
Tom glanced down at his hands. At the tubes feeding into his veins. "Sounds like business as usual."
She tried to mask her frustration. Do you know anything, or not? she wanted to scream.
"Mostly." Cooper shifted in her periphery. "Everyone's still on edge, after what happened."
The nurse clucked her tongue. "We shouldn't speak of such things. But they're right, of course." She patted Tom's thin shoulder. "You've been sorely missed."
Calla resisted the urge to bash the nurse over the head with a particularly large pot of daffodils. "Yes. Of course."
One minute dragged into five. Five minutes dragged into ten. Their conversation never strayed far from idle banter and inane pleasantries, which only fueled her sense of frustration. No matter how she poked and prodded, there was little she could do with the nurse latched onto Tom's side, like some sort of overly helpful parasite.
Calla scrutinized his downcast eyes, his clenched fists. His head had been shaved, and a fine layer of hair—pale like corn silk—now covered his scalp, revealing only the hint of an angry red surgical scar. Otherwise, he looked much the same as he always had.
A kid with something to prove.
"It really was good of you to drop by." The nurse had begun rearranging Tom's many tubes. "But it's time for his x-rays."
He startled at that. "Right now?" His eyes flashed to Calla's face. Or was she just imagining things? "Can't it wait?"
She clucked her tongue at him. "I'm afraid not." Her next words were less sweet. "You've still a ways to go before you're ready for full visitation hours. We're going to take things slow." Her eyes turned in their direction. "Your friends can come back another day."
Five minutes. Just give us five minutes. Calla opened her mouth to say so.
Cooper pinched her arm. She turned her furious eyes to his face, but he was smiling serenely at the nurse. "We will. Get better, alright?"
Tom didn't know what to do with the sentiment. "Thanks," he mumbled, flustered.
Calla ground her teeth in frustration.We were so close, the beast whined. Aloud, she promised, "We'll come back soon."
The nurse hummed under her breath. "That's good." She was injecting something into Tom's IV bag. A sedative, maybe. His eyes drooped in confirmation.
Cooper turned and left the room without another word. But Calla lingered in the doorway, stubbornly clinging to some small hope. They'd come here for answers. Could she really walk away empty-handed?
Tom gazed back at her. The nurse turned from him for a brief moment—a mere flash of seconds. Calla seized the opportunity and mouthed the question: Who did this?
He blinked at her owlishly. And then, through the haze of his sedative, he mumbled a single word.
No. Not a word, she realized as the door shut in her face. But a name. The final piece of the puzzle.
Calla had found her target at last.