Calla contemplated the two white pills nestled in her palm.
Cooper had insisted she wait to use the bathroom until he was sure Vincent wasn't coming back to the apartment anytime soon—something about a morning workout, the details of which she cared about very little. But if Cooper thought she was going to be content sitting around while he hid her away...
The memory of that morning spent in bed brought the barest hint of a smile to her face. A smile that faded the longer she stared at the pills.
She hadn't meant to bring them. She'd found them in the mailbox just before her trip to the post office—before her trip here, to Cooper. The drop-off had been anonymous, as she'd requested, from a dealer who did not know her face or her name and who would not ask questions, so long as she had cash and a burner phone to keep their dealings private.
The pills, she knew, would be laced with fentanyl. Also as she'd requested.
Now there was just the simple matter of getting the pills to the professor. Another unfortunate statistic in the national fentanyl crisis, indeed. Calla would have to break into his apartment to get the job done. Or perhaps she could find some way into his office. But to be seen on a campus she did not belong on, let alone in the same building as the professor who was soon to be dead...
She could think of no better way to get herself caught.
But Cooper...he could do it.
A terrible, practical thought. She frowned, attempting to banish it. She remembered the way he'd combed back her hair that morning, when he'd thought she was still asleep. How gentle he'd been. How she'd longed to reach for him, even then.
To ask this of him would break him and whatever fragile thing nested between them. She was sure of it.
He's not the meek little boy he used to be, another part of her argued, clenching the pills in her fist. She glanced at the bathroom door, wary. It's the only way. It could take me weeks to catch the professor unawares, and without drawing attention to myself in the process.
Calla did not have weeks.
This was the simplest, most obvious path. Cooper had good reason to be in the professor's immediate vicinity. For him to get the professor alone, or else to find some way to distract him long enough to slip an extra pill or two into his bottle—such a thing would be child's play.
Sighing, she tucked away the pills and tied up her hair, glaring at her reflection. Loathing herself for what she was about to do, and for the guilt that would never come.
Cooper looked up from his coffee as she entered the kitchen, his hair tousled from sleep. "Took you long enough," he observed, and she was relieved that this, at least, had not changed after their night in bed together. She'd wondered...
His expression shifted to one of concern the longer he looked at her. "What?" He straightened, coffee forgotten. He looked more alert than he had yesterday—and the week before that, too. "What is it?"
She joined him at the counter, the pills still clenched in her fist. "You look like you finally got some sleep," she observed, thoughtful.
He blinked owlishly at her, surprised. "I..."
His astonishment wrung another smile out of her. "Well, look at that," she murmured. "I repel happy endings and restless nights."
"It's a little early for self-deprecation."
"It's a little early for a lot of things," Calla agreed, placing the pills on the counter between them. And she waited.
He eyed them suspiciously. "Viagra?"
"Cooper," she said, exasperated despite the seriousness of the situation. "Why would that be Viagra?"
"I honestly have no idea, because as you well know, I definitely don't need it," he said, the words so smug she had to laugh.
He'll hate you for this, a small voice whispered in the back of her head.
She ignored it.
"Those," Calla said, her laughter subsiding, "are prescription pills. Xanax." She paused, waiting for her meaning to sink in. "For the professor."
"Oh." Cooper's look shifted to one of such trepidation, she almost laughed again. "Killjoy."
"Literally."
"That," he held up a finger, "is not funny." And it wasn't. His smile fell the longer he stared at the pills, two little white dots lying innocently on his kitchen counter. "You want me to..." He made a vague gesture, indicating the pills. "Don't you?"
Calla swallowed her amusement and tugged on the back of his shirt. "Cooper." When he wouldn't budge, she sighed and stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the counter and the poison there. "Cooper. Forget the pills for now. Just...give yourself the week to mull it over. Ask yourself if this is something you're even capable of." She closed her eyes with a tired sigh. "If I have to, I can spike the professor's pill bottle during my next visit—"
"Somehow, that isn't as comforting as you think it is," he said, voice pitched unusually high.
She opened her eyes, cupping his chin in her hand. "I have to do this."
"I know."
"If I don't—"
"I know." He sighed, gazing at her with an inscrutable look in his eyes. "This is all part of your master plan, huh? Seduce me and get me to do your dirty work for you."
She smiled at that. "I don't have to get you in bed to get my way." Still smiling, she kissed his jaw. "That part was just for fun."
"Mmm-hmm." He softened somewhat at her touch, the worry in his eyes abating millimeter by millimeter—until they suddenly widened in alarm. "Uh. Calla?"
She arched a curious brow, perplexed by his reaction. "Yeah?"
"Are you...um..." He scratched the back of his head. "Are you on birth control, by chance?"
She stared at him, aghast—and then she started to laugh. "That's what you're worried about right now?"
He frowned, indignant. "Well, yeah. Kids are expensive and sticky—"
Still half-laughing, she pressed her lips to his. Against his mouth, she said, "I'm on the pill, Cooper." He sighed again, clearly relieved, and curled his hands around her waist, kissing her in earnest now, and it was a kiss that very nearly convinced her to blow off her afternoon shift at the morgue. But her boss would be waiting, and she couldn't very well stay here forever—
Why not? That small, annoying little voice was back, nagging at her. Stay. Stay with him. Maybe this can still have a happy ending.
She knew that was a lie, and it was the sweetest, cruelest of lies—even if in the secret, shriveled corner of her black heart, she yearned for it to be true. That somehow, in this life, with this boy, she could have that happy ending. Even if she did not deserve it.
I repel happy endings, she'd told him, and the faint spark of hope flickering in her chest guttered. She'd been right before.
Her story would not have a happy ending.
But maybe his story still can, she thought, pulling away from him rather grudgingly. He planted a swift, sweet kiss on the tip of her nose, and a hard ball of determination roosted in her heart.
She would make sure of it.
# # #
As Calla approached the mortuary where she interned, exhausted from the long drive, a familiar silver car across the street caught and held her eye.
Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.
Michaels.
Of course he was here. She found an open spot in front of the morgue and parked Olivia's car, slinging aside the seatbelt with a furious flick of her fingers. There had to be some universal law in place, Calla thought, that forbade her from being content for more than twenty-four hours at a time...
She stepped out into the cold November air, glaring at the little silver car and the man behind the wheel. He motioned for her to approach.
Her teeth snapped together with an audible click. She couldn't very well refuse him.
Seething, Calla waited for a garbage truck to pass by before crossing the street, and as she did, the silver car's window began to glide down. "Calla," Michaels greeted softly, sporting a pair of thin black sunglasses. He indicated the empty passenger seat.
For a split second, she allowed her imagination to run wild, envisioning how it would feel to spit right in his beady, evil eye. But then the fantasy ended and she crawled into his car—like the good little dog I am, she thought, the beast in her belly hissing in outrage.
Too tired to bother with niceties, she said, "Those sunglasses make you look like the villain in a tacky spy movie."
His smug superiority dropped by a notch—just a notch, but it felt like a victory nonetheless. "I'm here for a status update."
She'd expected nothing less. Still, the pressure of Michaels' expectations weighed on her, pressing her down, down...
Time. I'm running out of time. She thought of Cooper then and the gentle way he'd held her, as if she were something precious. Something that mattered. Just a little while longer. That's all I need. That's all I'm asking for.
But if anyone was listening to her silent pleas, she was sure they would only be too happy to ignore her. Anything to watch her suffer.
"Do you want the job done, or do you want the job done right?" she asked wearily, eyeing a passerby on the sidewalk as he jogged past. "The professor will be dead soon enough."
"I'm going to need a more specific timeframe."
She popped open the passenger door, fed up with the monotony of their conversation and the position he'd put her in, the position he'd put Cooper in. "Soon. That's your timeframe."
His hand latched around her upper arm, holding her with enough force to bruise. She clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out or indicate he'd hurt her in any way. "Calla," he warned in a low, dangerous voice. "We don't have time to play games. I want this job done, and I want it done quickly." He paused, considering her even as she glared at him. "And I would caution you against involving any...innocent parties in your schemes with the professor, while you're at it."
She met his stare, unflinching. "Innocent parties," she repeated dully, feigning ignorance.
"Yes. Like that boy." He smiled as her blood turned cold. "What is his name..."
"Nobody's involved in—" she started, but Michaels only squeezed harder, cutting off her sentence and what little blood circulation remained in her arm.
"You think I don't know where you went off to this weekend?" he asked quietly. "You should know better."
She said nothing, ignoring the ache in her arm, pins and needles prickling at her skin.
"Ah, yes." Michaels smiled grimly at her. "Cooper. That's the boy's name." Calla's ears began to ring. "Cooper Daniels."
Her nostrils flared. "If you touch him—"
"As I said. I want this done quickly." He released her arm. "Bye now."
Calla couldn't move, couldn't breathe. So she began to count.
One—blood, hot and slick on her hands, pouring from his throat—two—screaming, so much screaming as she tore his eyes from his skull—three—and he would beg, oh he would beg her to stop—
Calla stepped out of the car without a word, willing her feet to carry her across the street. Movement in the mortuary's lower right window caught her eye, the curtains shifting subtly back into place.
Her tense audience with Michaels hadn't gone completely unnoticed, at least.
The Director. She allowed herself a small smile, the last of her anger fading into practiced indifference. Joseph Richards had the same curious streak as his son, Kevin. Something that may work out in my favor, if I play my cards right.
Calla didn't bother looking over her shoulder to watch Michaels' drive off. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction, not after she'd already screwed up so spectacularly. I shouldn't have risen to his bait like that, she chastised herself, using a spare key to unlock the mortuary's front door. If he didn't already know how I feel about Cooper, he definitely does now.
And how did she feel about Cooper, anyway? The question grated at her, demanding her attention. But she had other things to do.
The three-story mortuary—which looked more or less like any other business from the outside, with its faded red brick and glossy windows—was a relic of the town of Ithaca, though the Director and the Director before him had taken care to maintain the building's integrity over the years. The second floor served as a sort of reception area, with a spare bedroom that had been converted into a kitchenette that Calla used to while away her lunch hours and an office in the back that the Director more or less had repurposed into a storage unit, piled high with boxes of old files and outdated equipment that no one really knew what to do with. The main area, now meant for private consultations, had historically been used as a showroom, where clients could come admire the many different caskets available for their loved ones; now there were only three coffins on display, the rest contained within the pages of a glossy catalog Calla liked to flip through from time to time, contemplating whether she fancied the black-and-gold trim casket, or the one with the silver-and-bronze clasps.
She supposed if it ever came down to it, she wouldn't care either way. Considering she'd be dead.
She hovered at the foot of the stairs, listening intently. Hearing nothing, she cut across the reception area—the Director's wife had spruced it up last year, investing in a new carpet and leather couch and a set of upholstered chairs that Calla hated because of how unbearably uncomfortable they were—and nudged open the door to the storage room, shivering as a blast of cold air washed over her.
She found the Director—the spitting image of his son, minus the vibrant blue hair—bent over a cadaver, a tablet in hand. He glanced up at her innocently, as if he'd spent the entire morning in this very room and certainly not hovering by the windows, spying on her conversation with Michaels.
"Calla Parker, as I live and breathe..." He glanced down at the body on the storage rack. "Can't say the same for Mr. Turney, I'm afraid."
She grinned at his morbid sense of humor. "It's a little early for dead guy jokes."
"It's never too early for dead guy jokes," he quipped, just as she'd known he would. It was one of his favorite sayings. "And how is my favorite intern today?"
"I'm your only intern," she reminded him, peering down at the cadaver with unbridled curiosity. She wouldn't be reprimanded for such a thing, not here. It was why she'd chosen this place—why she'd chosen to sit among the dead when she could've been pulling hours at Cayuga Medical or the front desk at Ithaca's student center.
Unlike the living, the dead did not judge.
But she couldn't say as much, not aloud. So, back when the Director had first asked her why she wanted to work at a mortuary, she'd said simply, You never know when a dead body might come in handy.
He'd laughed at that, and Calla, who'd been quite serious, laughed right along with him.
The Director beamed at her now, the cadaver between them. "And you're the best intern I've ever had!"
"I'm the only intern you've ever had."
"Is that right?" he mused, feigning surprise.
She held out a hand for the tablet. "I can notate."
"Excellent." He passed over the tablet, which was still locked, also as she'd known it would be—the Director could find a way to ruin even the most reliable of technology, a fact he often joked about. It was one of the reasons Kevin had convinced him to take her on an intern in the first place.
She unlocked the device and opened their reporting system. Across from her, the Director frowned down at the cadaver. "Lawrence Turney." He glanced at her. "What an unfortunate name, Lawrence. Don't you think?"
"Terrible."
"I thought so." He nodded solemnly. "Sixty-two. Still quite a young fellow, in the grand scheme of things..."
Calla logged each detail as it was presented: the make of the coffin Lawrence Turney's family had purchased; what arrangements would be needed to transport the body to Lake View Cemetery; how many visitors would be expected to pay their respects on the day in question. Mindless work. Calla let it carry her away—away from Michaels, away from the professor, away from the uncertainty of her future. If she even had a future.
A bleak thought.
If the Director noticed her sullen demeanor, he did not comment on it, and at the end of her shift he doled out her paycheck—cash, because she preferred it and he was nothing if not accommodating—with a knowing, sympathetic smile that told her he would be there to talk if ever she needed it.
"And this, too," he added, placing a second envelope in her hand. Calla peered inside, stunned to see a set of hundred dollar bills. "A holiday bonus," he clarified, patting the back of her hand in a fatherly gesture. "See you tomorrow."
She held both envelopes close to her chest. "Thank you," she said reverently, and she meant it.
He waved her away, and, still smiling, she ran back out into the cold, wrestling Olivia's car keys from her pocket. She'd known it would be dark outside, what with the recent time change; still, it was unsettling to look skyward at such an early hour and see the faint glimmer of stars on the horizon.
She let Olivia know she was on her way before making the short journey across town. Kevin had agreed to drop Olivia off at Calla's apartment so she could retrieve her car, but Calla was nevertheless caught off guard when, upon opening her apartment door, she found Olivia waiting for her at the threshold, a broad, shit-eating grin on her face.
"Jesus fu—" Olivia bounded forward, wrapping Calla and her overnight bag in a bone-crushing hug. "Olivia! You can't just lurk inside the door like that."
"If you didn't want me to lurk, you shouldn't have given me a spare key," she sang.
"I'm regretting that spare key now," Calla muttered, and she meant it.
"Tell. Me. Everything," Olivia demanded, one-track minded as usual. She pulled back to hold Calla at arm's length. "And don't you dare tell me nothing happened, because you have that post-sex glow and—" She scowled at Calla's pained grimace. "What? What is it?" Olivia's eyes fell to her arm. She opened Calla's jacket, revealing the red mark around her right bicep. "Girl, what the fuck? I didn't think Cooper liked it that rough."
"It wasn't Cooper," Calla said automatically, and more than a little exasperated. She gently herded Olivia back into the living room, eager to escape the cold.
"Girlfriend." Olivia dropped onto the couch while Calla went for the bedroom, keeping the door open so they could talk. "Who's putting their hands on you like that?"
"It's...nothing." Calla injected a note of uncertainty into the words. Better play up this bruise while it lasts, she thought with dark amusement, kneeling by her bedside to retrieve the shoebox she kept stashed beneath the headboard.
A trick she'd picked up from an old...friend. An old friend who had become something quite more than a friend, she supposed. And then she shook the thought away, agitated. There would be time enough for that later.
"Translation: it's something," Olivia called, sounding closer than before. Calla hastily stashed away the envelopes of cash and shoved the shoebox back under the bed, and just in time. She'd only just scrambled back to her feet, overnight bag in hand, when Olivia—who couldn't sit still for more than ten or twenty seconds at a time—skipped into the bedroom. "Spill. Right now."
Close. Too close, Calla thought, dumping the contents of her bag onto the bed. "Fine. But this stays between us. And by us, I mean me and you. Not me and you and Kevin."
Olivia smacked a hand over her heart. "Scout's honor."
"You weren't a Girl Scout."
"It's the pledge that counts, though."
Calla decided to let the matter drop. "You remember that creepy detective from my hometown, the one I told you about? His son was the one who..." She met Olivia's eye with raised brows.
"Oh. That one." Olivia made an oh shit face. "Yeah, that story's kinda hard to forget."
"Well..." She let the word hang between them. "Apparently, he's in town."
"Like, this town," Olivia stated, looking for clarification. "Here. Ithaca." Calla just nodded. "Hold on. He did that to your arm?"
Calla shrugged in affirmative.
Olivia held up a hand. "Uh, question. Why the fuck did this dead dude's dad grab you?"
"He wanted to talk, I guess. I don't think he meant to grab me that hard, and I do kinda bruise easy..." Again, she shrugged. "He's just an odd guy, y'know? I mean, I'm not surprised. Look how his son turned out."
An innocent enough statement. But she knew Olivia would draw her own conclusions—that Michaels had it out for Calla, that he was unstable, just as his son had been. That he was obsessed. Calla could have said as much herself, but she knew it was better to feign ignorance in this, better to let others discern what was fact and what was fiction—based, of course, on the carefully curated information Calla had elected to share.
Olivia chewed over what had been said, while Calla, eager to keep her hands busy, tossed her dirty clothes into the corner, wrinkling her nose as the smell of tequila washed over her. She'd doubtless soaked the sweater she'd worn the night she and Cooper...
She allowed herself a small smile at the memory.
"Okay. Fuck the old man. If you need me to beat some ass, I will." Olivia fell back onto the bed, wiggling her brows suggestively. "I want to know who's got you smiling like that. And by who, I mean Cooper. And by Cooper, I mean I want to hear all the dirty nasty details of the dirty nasty."
Calla sighed. Olivia wouldn't let it rest until she knew something worthwhile, so she told her—about the karaoke bar and the walk home and the dirty nasty details of the dirty nasty. "Which," Calla emphasized, remembering the filth Cooper had whispered in her ear, "was much dirtier than I expected." That elicited a slew of follow-up questions. Was the sex any good? Had Calla gotten off? How many times, exactly?
This and more Olivia asked. Calla knew Cooper would likely be mortified if he ever found out exactly how much Olivia—and by extension, Kevin—knew about their sex life. Still, Olivia was Olivia, and her attention often wandered as Calla spoke, her hands fiddling with anything they could reach—old photographs and the dusty King James Bible and even, to her astonishment and horror, a jar of Calla's wisdom teeth.
"Mom told me to keep them," Calla insisted. Olivia just shuddered and put away the jar and, in true Olivia fashioned, followed up with a question about how big is Cooper, anyway?
After some time, the questions stopped—but not for long, Calla knew, packing away the last of her things. From her spot on the bed, Olivia rolled over, propping her chin in her hands, feet swinging in the air like a schoolgirl's. The pose was so reminiscent of something Rachel might do if she were here, alive, that Calla froze, momentarily stunned into silence.
"Calla?"
She blinked, coming back to the present. "Sorry?"
"Well, are you and Cooper official, or what?"
"Oh." She grimaced. Here was the question she did not want to answer, because...well, because she didn't know how to answer and admitting as much irked her and that was that. "I don't know, Liv. We didn't really...get that far."
Olivia sighed. "The sex was so good you two didn't even talk? You lucky bitch." Calla threw a sock at her nose, which Olivia batted away with a laugh. "Okay, sorry. But if you're trying to define the relationship..."
Calla gave her a look. "We don't need to define anything." Cooper and I are fine. A conversation isn't necessary. She caught herself worrying at her lip and immediately stopped. Unless...does he think we need to have a conversation?
Olivia sat up. "Calla. Of course you do. And you can do it at my Tacky Christmas party." She bounced to her feet with a flourish.
"Ah, yes," Calla said sarcastically, her nerves vanishing. "The perfect location for a serious conversation."
"Okay. So maybe you should plan to have the serious conversation before the party," she amended. "But think of how cute you two will look in matching sweaters!"
Calla felt her face twist in horror. "No."
"It's matching sweaters or nothing," she insisted. "Those are the rules."
"Liv," Calla complained.
Olivia clapped her hands together, eyes going wide and round and pathetic. "Please."
"Oh, Christ on a stick."
It was as good as a yes, and Olivia knew it. She pranced around the room, practically squealing with delight as she twirled and pirouetted and otherwise made a complete fool out of herself, gushing about red and green streamers and balloons filled with golden confetti and other nonsense Calla did not care about because she couldn't afford to care about anything beyond the here and now, not when her days were so numbered, sand trickling through her fingers to mark each hour as it passed—for her, and for the professor whose every breath endangered the boy Calla could not stand to lose.
I want this job done, and I want it done quickly.
Time. She just needed more time.
"I need to order decorations," Olivia announced, releasing Calla's hands abruptly. She hurried out of the room, presumably to find the phone she was always misplacing. "December's gonna be here before we know it!"
That it will, Calla thought darkly, staring down at her cold, empty hands. But if there were any answers to be found in the line of her palms, she could not discern them.
And maybe that was for the best.