She lied to me.
"Vincent," Cooper said stiffly.
Vincent, cursing viciously from the driver's side of his supersized truck, struggled to fit the keys to the ignition. "I'm trying, I'm trying."
Cooper tapped anxiously on his bracelet. Please, he begged, to anyone who would listen. Please bring her back to me.
The engine roared to life. "Where?" Vincent barked, all business.
Cooper's stomach lurched at the question.
Where are you, Calla?
Maybe she'd gone ahead to Michaels' place without them, or maybe she really had gone to the park and things were just taking longer than anticipated and he was being a complete imbecile. Maybe—
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Cooper nearly vomited right there in the truck.
"Cooper?" Vincent asked tersely, glancing over at him, hands braced against the steering wheel.
Look after each other.
Cooper pictured Calla as he'd last seen her. Those dark, piercing eyes, her work bag slung over her shoulder—
Her work bag.
"The mortuary," he blurted. An educated guess. It wasn't completely isolated, not like some old dusty warehouse, but knowing Calla, she would've wanted to ensure she could conduct her business at least somewhat privately. The park was too public, too open.
He should have guessed she would do this. It was his fault. It was all his fault—
"We'll get there," Vincent promised, grim-faced, as they tore out of the parking lot.
But will we get there in time? Cooper wondered.
Tense as they were, neither one of them thought to bother with the radio, the steady growl of the engine the only sound between them, punctuated by the occasional squeal of tires as Vincent executed a particularly sharp turn. Cooper was grateful for the urgency; he'd half wondered if Vincent would drag his feet getting wherever they needed to go, just to leave Calla to rot—but of course he wouldn't, not even if he wanted to, because they were brothers and Cooper was hurting and when he hurt, Vincent hurt too.
Cooper tapped his bracelet. "ETA?"
"Seven minutes." Vincent glanced at the GPS on his phone. "There's traffic on Cherry Street—"
"Bypass it."
"Can't." He picked up the phone, eyes flickering between the road and the screen. "Or maybe I can? I don't know. I don't know this town—"
"Vincent!" Cooper shouted in the millisecond it took to spot the minivan outside Vincent's window, racing right for the intersection they'd just blown through, completely unaware.
Too late.
The minivan slammed into the side of the truck, the impact spinning them around, throwing both boys against their seatbelts. Cooper was aware of squealing tires and cracking glass and the putrid scent of burnt rubber and brakes, and then it was over in a blink.
Cooper's hands automatically went for his seatbelt. He couldn't feel a damn thing. That's the adrenaline, he thought, freeing himself with a gasp.
"Vincent—"
"Coop." Vincent looked over and, when he found his friend in one piece, sighed in relief. "Oh, thank fuck."
Cooper looked him over. There was a cut over his right eye, but otherwise—unscathed.
They both turned and stared ahead at the truck's ruined windshield.
"Less thankful now," Vincent muttered, watching black smoke waft up from the engine.
Cooper popped open the passenger door. "Come on. You won't be able to get out from that side."
Vincent crawled out after him, swearing up a storm. Once he'd landed on his feet, looking solid if not a bit shaken, Cooper dragged him over to the sidewalk and out of the street. A line of cars had piled up behind them, curious heads craning out of windows, trying to get a better glimpse of the unfolding drama.
"Oh my God," a shrill voice was saying from the other side of the truck. "Oh my God, I am so, so sorry—"
Vincent and Cooper shared a well, shit look.
They were lucky, Cooper supposed. The truck was big enough that the minivan hadn't made much of a dent. They'd spun around and the back of the truck was up on the sidewalk, and he was sure the driver's side would be a mess of crumpled metal, but they hadn't flipped and, well, they were alive, which was the important thing, he supposed. But Vincent had been the one to blow right through that intersection, Cooper's desperation to find a shortcut to the mortuary spurring him on, and—fuck, this was definitely going to be a logistical nightmare.
"Cooper." Vincent gripped his shoulder, wide-eyed. "Go."
The urgency in his voice reminded Cooper why they'd been on the road in the first place.
Calla.
"Go," Vincent said again, shoving him down the sidewalk—in the wrong direction. "I'll take care of this."
Cooper shot him a wild, uncertain look. "Are you—"
"Go!"
Cooper bolted past him, down the sidewalk and around the corner, ignoring the startled shout that followed in his wake—probably the woman who had hit them, assuming Cooper had been the one behind the wheel and was making a run for it. He was making a run for it, but not for the reasons she thought. Vincent could handle her, even if it would probably be a headache for his PR team to juggle once wind of the accident circulated through the media. Cooper almost turned back, not wanting to abandon him to that.
But between the two of them, he was sure, sure down to his bones that Calla needed him more. And so he ran.
Cooper had never been much for running. His lungs weren't built for it, and neither were his legs, and...well, nothing about him was up to the task, not for more than five minutes at a time, which was one reason having a top athlete for a best friend and a highschool track star for a girlfriend was such a royal pain in the ass.
But for the first and possibly only time in his life, he paid no mind to the pain.
He just ran.
When he had to stop, like at a red light with too many cars zooming past to not give a fuck, he pressed and pressed and pressed the silver centerpiece on his bracelet, desperate for a response. But so far as he could tell, there was nothing and no one on the other end of the line.
Cooper was alone.
"Come on," he gasped, slapping the bracelet with his palm. "Answer me, goddamn it."
He didn't even know if he was running in the right direction. He kept missing turns and doubling back, checking the GPS on his phone and cursing in agitation when he realized he'd run two minutes down the wrong lane. And what if Calla wasn't even at the mortuary? What then?
It had been over two hours since he'd last seen her. A hundred and forty-four minutes and counting.
What if she's already gone, Coop?
He shut down the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. If he gave into it he'd be a blubbering mess on the sidewalk, in addition to being near-useless from pushing his body well beyond its limits, and he couldn't allow that to happen.
Less than half a mile to the mortuary, he contemplated the possibility that he might collapse and made a silent deal with the universe—if he survived this, if Calla survived this, he would take up running, sign up for a marathon. Anything. But first, he had to make it to the damn funeral home.
Mortuary. Calla's voice in his head, correcting him. His next gasp was a half-sob.
A quarter of a mile. A tenth. I'm not going to make it, he thought, sweat coursing down his back, soaking through his t-shirt and the hoodie he wore over that, his hair plastered to his forehead.
Just when he was about to drop, ironclad will or no, he turned the corner and there it was: the mortuary. A gray building on a gray street, looking more like a house than a business, thoroughly wedged between a barbershop and an old boarding house that had closed last fall.
Cooper was so relieved to finally have the damn thing in his sights, he almost didn't notice when his bracelet began to vibrate.
But then he did notice and he immediately pulled up short, chest heaving. He couldn't get enough air down and there was sweat running into his eyes, blurring his vision, but none of that mattered.
His world had narrowed down to the bracelet on his wrist, three gentle vibrations humming against his pulse.
Calla.
Before he could take another step, the mortuary exploded in a violent burst of flame.
# # #
The last of the fire had faded by sunset, leaving behind a smoking ruin.
Cooper sat against the curb across the street, his head in his hands. Someone tried coming by to ask him a question—he could see black work boots on the edge of his vision—but he was either too exhausted or too indifferent to care much about what they wanted from him, because he didn't hear a thing and eventually they wandered away, the boots drifting out of his line of sight.
The pavement beyond his feet flashed red and blue, firetrucks and ambulances and police cruisers stunningly bright in the dim glow of twilight. He was still vaguely aware of the uniforms that surrounded him, men and women who'd raced over to put out the fire or else ask him a gazillion questions, as if he'd started the damn thing.
"My girlfriend's inside!" He'd shouted those words over and over again, until his voice was gone and his screams became little more than a hoarse whisper. Why didn't they understand? Calla was inside and she needed help and they wouldn't stop asking him stupid questions, like what her name was and how he knew she was in there, he just knew goddamn it.
Eventually the firefighters had gone inside, blaze be damned, but had retreated after what felt like not enough time to Cooper, empty-handed and soot-covered. He'd wanted to shout again after that, but he didn't fancy being sent away or worse, thrown into a cell for interference, so he shut his mouth and watched on, helplessly, as the flames roared higher and hotter.
They'd forced him to wait on the corner for the longest time, fearful that the flames might jump to the barbershop and race their way down the street, into the residential area. But the firefighters had done their job well, and the only building affected, blown right down to the foundations, was the mortuary. And who cared about a bunch of dead people, anyway?
Now Cooper waited at the curb across the street, ignoring their efforts to send him on his way, to keep him informed as they discovered more about the situation. He'd spent the last hour staring at the blackened husk that had been the mortuary, eyes tracing the stone entryway and the staircase, both of which had survived, along with the fireplace and one room in the back. But the rest was ash and dust, except for the odd bits of furniture and equipment the firefighters moved out onto the blue tarps spread out on the front lawn.
Cooper hated those blue tarps.
A pair of officers had rolled them out when it'd become clear there had been people inside the building, and now little yellow markers accompanied each new piece of evidence, no human remains to be found.
But eventually and much to his horror, they found the bodies, too.
Cooper's heart had lodged in his throat when emergency personnel brought out the first stretcher, loaded down with a black bag roughly the size of a human being. But no one would talk to him, obviously. Not even to tell him whether it was a male or a female that had been found in the rubble.
There had been a second stretcher some interminable time after that. Cooper's gut had been churning ever since.
Hence why he'd decided to sit there on the curb, his head thrust between his knees. If he stood now, he knew he would vomit everywhere, and then they'd definitely send him packing.
Every once in a while, he stroked the metal on his left wrist, the bracelet silent and cold. He tapped it once, experimentally.
Knowing he would feel nothing and hoping he would anyway.
"Cooper Daniels?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. Go away.
"Excuse me, Mr. Daniels." More shiny black boots in his vision. "You said your girlfriend was inside the mortuary?"
Girlfriend. It was the only word that could have possibly gotten his attention. He lifted his head, staring up at a woman in the brown uniform of the sheriff's department, her dark hair pulled back into a severe bun.
But her eyes were kind, her smile sad as she gazed down at him, his own eyes sore with old tears. "We're going to be working through the scene for some time, and it'll be family we contact once we know anything concrete. But..." She looked him over. Pitying. "Nothing's confirmed, or anything, but right now it does look like there were three people inside the building when it went up."
Cooper almost suggested that perhaps the third person had been a corpse—like, unironically...it was a mortuary, after all—but he figured that wouldn't be helpful, so he didn't say anything.
"Do you know who else could have been inside with your girlfriend?" The officer pressed, checking her notepad. A quick, darting glance. "Calla Parker, was it?"
Anger caught hold of him, sudden and swift. "Can't you even remember her name?" he snapped. "Calla. Parker. It's not that hard."
"Sir, I'm sorry for—"
I'm sorry for your loss.
She was likely going to say something else, like I'm sorry for the questions, but I need to ask, because it wasn't like they'd confirmed anything yet and even when they did, he wasn't going to be the first one on their list to tell—but those were the words he heard in his head, breaking what little hold he still had on himself.
"Cooper!"
He flinched, startled by the interruption. But it was only Vincent, jogging down the sidewalk and looking sweaty and exhausted, the cut over his eye from the wreck—God, that seemed like ages ago—neatly stitched up.
As he approached, his eyes darted warily over the burnt husk of the mortuary. "What happened?"
"Sir, please." The officer frowned at them both. "Mr. Daniels, if you know anything else—"
"I know my fucking girlfriend was inside!" he shouted, rounding on her. "What else do you want? Why can't you tell me what's going on?" He gestured wildly across the street, to the blue tarp and the yellow markers and the pile of old, burnt junk laid out in neat little rows. "Is she dead or not?"
"Sir—
"Coop," Vincent murmured, grabbing his arm. "Easy."
Cooper shook off his hand. He hated how gentle they sounded. So understanding when in fact, they didn't understand at all. "No. No, I'm not going to fucking take it easy. No one will tell me anything, and I've been waiting here for fucking hours!"
"Mr. Daniels," the officer said patiently. "I'm sorry, but you aren't family."
Cooper clutched his head. Anger clawed at his throat, burning through his veins—burning away the pain and oh, he finally knew what Calla had been talking about when she'd told him that the anger was better than nothing, because it was definitely better than facing the black void waiting for him on the other side of this. So he gave into it, because it was easy and it reminded him of her, and he was furious, furious at these people for not being able to save her and furious at himself for the same, she was gone, she was—
The anger slipped through his fingers into a puddle at his feet. A sob ripped out of him, sending him to his knees.
If only he'd been able to keep on hating her. Maybe then he wouldn't feel like this.
People were talking over and around him. Frantic voices, loud voices—so many voices. Cooper tuned them all out, choking on his own breath, why couldn't he breathe—
There was a small pinch somewhere on the back of his neck, and his airway opened even as his vision began to go dark, his sobs tapering off into shallow, broken gasps.
"I've got you," Vincent said, very near Cooper's ear. "I've got you, Coop."
Please, Cooper thought. Just let me fall.
And he did fall then, down into blissful oblivion—an empty space so wide it swallowed him whole.