Two years.

Cooper's fingertips skimmed over the glossy photographs spread out across his bedroom floor. Familiar faces stared back at him. Ryan at the winter gala, his eyes wide with surprise and annoyance. Vincent sitting on the hood of Cooper's Mustang, a broad smile on his face. Tom frowning down at his camera—looking at pictures of his own, perhaps.

And Calla. Sitting under the oak tree. Standing in her driveway. Glaring at him in the hallway.

Cooper's collection had grown steadily over the years. Many of these photographs were innocent—shots he'd collected for yearbook and had chosen to safeguard, a reel of memories that he could return to whenever he chose. But a select few had been taken as evidence. Each one was a dark reminder of the fate he had so narrowly escaped two years ago.

Two years...

The shoebox he kept stowed under his bed had seen better days. The corners had begun to tear, the lid beaten and bent beyond repair. Not for the first time, he thought, it's time to let this go.

He gathered up the photographs with a sigh. He'd just placed the last one in the box when the doorbell rang.

"Honey?" his mom called from the bathroom across the hall.

"On it," he called back, sighing as he hauled himself to his feet. He kicked the shoebox toward his bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, dragging himself down the hall. The doorbell rang again.

"Coming," he said. He opened the door, wincing at the cold air that cut at his bare legs.

Calla's red hair drew his eye first. "Hey." He blinked in surprise. Vincent stood at her side, his shoulders slightly hunched, fingers worrying at the strap of his athletic bag. "What's—"

The question died in his throat.

Cooper stepped aside to let them in. Vincent stared at the floor, his eyebrows bunched together. A nasty split ran down his bottom lip. Bruises ringed his jaw and hovered beneath his eyes, as if someone had taken a good crack at his nose.

"Who?" Cooper asked bluntly.

Vincent shrugged. And really, that was answer enough. Calla's expression remained carefully, dangerously, neutral.

Cooper nodded and headed for the bathroom. Behind him, he heard someone banging around in the kitchen, looking for a snack.

"Mom?" He tapped his knuckles on the wall, announcing his presence. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

She poked her head out into the hall. Fully dressed. Thank God. "Hmm?"

Cooper folded his arms. "Vincent needs to stay here for a while."

She frowned. She looked exhausted, her eyes still heavy with sleep despite the shower. He hadn't seen her since before dinner last night. She'd left to "run errands", supposedly—though he wasn't sure what errands could have kept her out past midnight. "What's wrong?"

He shrugged. Vincent would tell that story when he was ready.

Pursing her lips, she stepped out into the hall. "Is he alright?"

"I think so."

She slipped past him, squeezing his shoulder as she did so. He followed her into the kitchen, hanging back a respectful distance.

His mom didn't say a word as she approached Vincent, who stood at the sink, a pack of ice against his jaw. She placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head toward the light. The bruises stood out in stark relief against his skin.

"You can stay here as long as you want," his mom finally said. Her words were strangled.

Vincent wrapped her in a one-armed hug. Cooper heard his mom choke on a sob, and decided that he'd seen enough. Vincent needed this moment, probably more than even he knew.

Cooper and Calla locked eyes from across the room. She rose from the couch and padded silently after him.

She hesitated when he slipped into his room, lingering at the threshold, her eyes scanning every inch of the space. The posters on the wall. The pile of dirty clothes spilling out of his closet. The edge of the shoebox peeking out from under his bed.

Cooper bent to retrieve it, but then she was there, lifting the shoebox into her hands. He froze, panicked. "What's this?" she asked, shaking the box. The photographs rattled around inside.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

Too quickly.

She smiled her cheshire cat smile. It disappeared when they heard footsteps approaching. But Vincent didn't so much as glance their way. He slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Cooper waited until he heard the sound of the shower before he said, "Please don't."

She flipped open the lid. Cooper fell onto the bed, awaiting her judgement in tense silence.

After a few agonizing seconds, she perched on the edge of his bed, her thigh brushing his. "Well, well, well," she murmured, setting the box on her lap. She sifted through the pile of photographs, her eyes lingering on each snapshot he'd taken of her. "I guess we all have our vices, after all."

He swallowed. "Are you mad?"

"Mad," she repeated, testing the word. "About your weird little...hobby?" She brandished one of the photographs—the one he'd taken of her over two years ago, back when he'd been a murder suspect and she'd been nothing more than his creepy next door neighbor. "To be frank? I don't think I have much room to judge."

"That's never stopped you before." He reached up to rake a hand through his hair.

She caught his hand before he could. He jumped, startled at the contact. "Relax." She smirked at them. "Does this make me your muse?"

"Absolutely not." He felt his face grow warm, and she laughed.

Shaking her head, she replaced the lid and slid the box back under his bed. "I'd keep that box to yourself, if I were you."

He scowled at her. "That's the plan."

He waited for her to leave. But she merely fell back on his bed, her hair fanned out around her head like a halo of flames.

"Make yourself at home," he muttered.

"Thanks." She closed her eyes and folded her hands on her chest, content.

Cooper sighed and laid back on the bed, mimicking her pose. They sat like that for a time, listening to his mom shuffle around in the kitchen. Until finally, Cooper asked, "Were you there when it happened?"

He didn't have to elaborate. Calla tensed beside him. "Yes."

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it. But he couldn't. Vincent's dad had always been a real piece of work, but this was different.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

Calla didn't answer. Not for a long moment. And then she shrugged. "What do you think? I couldn't do anything." He felt her shift. When he turned his head to the side, he found her staring at him. Their faces were inches apart. "But I wanted to. When I walked into that house, and I saw Vincent on the floor..."

Her expression transformed into something feral. Something inhuman. "I wanted to tear his teeth from his skull." Her voice remained low, neutral. She could have been talking about the weather. A chill skittered down his spine. "I wanted to..." She closed her eyes. "I suppose you don't need to hear the specifics."

He really didn't need to hear the specifics—because he could already see it in his head just fine. She would've torn that man apart if she'd had the chance, the very same way she'd torn Cory's throat to shreds. And she would've laughed while doing it. That much, he knew. 

Any sane person would have run from the sight of her. All Cooper felt was grim satisfaction.

"I almost wish you had," he muttered, looking away from her to stare at the ceiling.

There was nothing left to say. Calla sat upright and then stood, giving his room one last, long look before slipping out into the hall. Cooper waited just long enough to reign in his anger and then followed suit, joining her on the couch. He grabbed the remote and flipped through channel after channel, searching for something mindless to watch. Something to take his mind far, far away from thoughts of revenge.

Vincent joined them after a time, his hair damp from the shower. Whatever tension that might have remained after their showdown at school had evaporated. Cooper felt himself relax as the hours passed, falling into an easy, familiar rhythm.

"I missed this," Vincent said as the movie credits began to roll. Outside, the sky had begun to darken.

Cooper, who had moved to the armchair to give the lovebirds room to sprawl, smiled. "Yeah. Me, too."

It's a lot less stressful than hunting down a killer and stealing from law enforcement, that's for sure.

"Lasagna will be ready in thirty minutes," Cooper's mom announced from the kitchen.

Vincent brightened. "Thanks, Mrs. A."

She cast him a fond smile. Calla did the same.

Cooper stood to run to the bathroom when the doorbell rang for the second time that day. "Can you get that?" his mom asked, distracted by something on her phone.

"What now?" he muttered to himself, marching to the front door.

Sheriff Marks stood on the other side. Cooper blinked up at him, stunned. "Oh. Hey." He looked over his shoulder. "Mom?"

She glanced up, equally surprised. "Ted?"

"Amelia." He sounded exhausted. "I'm afraid this isn't a personal visit."

Cooper's mom was at his side in an instant, her hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" she asked, her voice low and worried.

Sheriff Marks took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. But we need to bring Cooper down to the station for questioning."

He glanced over their heads. Cooper turned to find that Vincent and Calla had wandered over, their eyes wide with surprise. Vincent had a fresh pack of ice against his jaw.

The sheriff sighed. "I suppose you two should come along, too. We're going to need to talk to everyone involved."

"Involved in what? Ted." His mom crossed her arms. "What is this? If you're going to take my boy—"

"Amelia." She pursed her lips at the interruption, but the sheriff pressed onward. "Were you home last night, by chance?"

"I—no." She tucked her hair behind her ear. Cooper thought she'd gone rather pink in the face. "I was out. Why? Ted, what's happened?"

Cooper's stomach twisted. This scene suddenly felt all too familiar. He had to fight the urge to shut the door in the sheriff's face, if only to prolong the inevitable.

Sheriff Marks scrubbed a weary hand down the length of his face. "They just found a body up at the highschool. A girl's been murdered."