"But why is he ignoring me, specifically?"

Calla sighed. She was running on fumes after another restless night of sleep, filled with dreams about the boy with golden curls. He'd been crying, screaming something incoherent about a monster under his bed. 

"Cooper," she said impatiently. "I am not your therapist. If you want to sign up for couple's counseling with Vincent, then do it."

He scowled at the road ahead. The day had turned out to be rather dreary—a perfect reflection of her own mental state. Black thunderheads had coalesced on the eastern horizon, and they were moving quickly, dashing the hopes of every highschooler who'd envisioned pristine weather for the annual winter gala being held later that evening.

Neither Calla, Cooper, nor Vincent would be making an appearance at the dance. Their experience sophomore year had sworn them off the event for life. That, and they had other things to worry about beyond what clothes to wear and how many mini bottles they could cram in the hidden compartment of a clutch.

Vincent had been texting her on and off all day—clipped one-word answers that told her he was distracted, no doubt consumed by thoughts that were best left untouched.  

At least he was still talking to her. Whatever beef he had with Cooper, he hadn't brought it up. Not even in passing.

Boys and their nonexistent communication skills, she thought irritably.

"Friends are supposed to help friends through hard times," Cooper mumbled under his breath, shooting her a venomous look.

"I'm going to kill the person responsible for your girlfriend's murder." She folded her arms, wrestling with the migraine that had been plaguing her since the early hours of the morning. Had the dream triggered it? Or was it some sort of cosmic punishment? "If that's not helping a friend through a hard time, I don't know what is."

He frowned. "I hate when you kind of make sense."

"So. All the time?"

"Ah, there it is." He nodded to himself. "Your infallible sense of modesty."

"As entertaining as this banter is," she drawled. "How, exactly, do you know where Ryan works?"

He leaned his head back against the seat, his fingers dangling off the edge of the steering wheel with alarming nonchalance. Calla herself had never bothered to get her driver's license—she had such a reliable chauffeur, after all—but she was almost positive you were supposed to stay at least somewhat attentive when driving a two thousand pound hunk of metal.

"I told you. We keep up online. Y'know, gaming stuff." Cooper perked up immediately. "He's got this sick new system—"

"No." She held up a hand. The headache had just gotten worse. A lot worse. "I don't care."

"But—"

"God," she groaned. "You need to make up with Vincent. Immediately. I can't do this gamer bullshit."

"Don't be sexist," Cooper said, indignant. His good cheer had worn off at the sound of Vincent's name. "Plenty of girls like video games, too. You could always give it a shot."

"Cooper." She turned to face him. "My hobbies are not like your hobbies. This isn't a battle of the sexes."

"Fine, fine." He relented with a roll of his eyes. Her own narrowed in response. "I'm just saying. There's something really satisfying about shooting someone in the head." He paused. "Virtually. Don't go getting any ideas."

"That ship has sailed." She pressed a hand to her temple. "Ryan doesn't know about this visit?" she asked for the third time.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Cooper shake his head. "Nope. It'll be a surprise. Like you wanted."

"Good." She rested the crown of her head against the window and closed her eyes. Learning Ryan's schedule had been easy enough. Finding the time to leave town—especially amidst the ongoing investigation—had been another matter entirely.

Her head pulsed in time with the beat of her heart. Calla grimaced. If she could just have a quiet moment to think, maybe then she could sort through the mystery behind her sleepless nights, her strange dreams. She'd been too preoccupied by other matters to give it much attention, a decision she was starting to regret.

Why was the golden-haired boy coming to her now, after all these years? Why wouldn't he let her rest? Were she anyone else, she might have chalked it up to a guilty conscience, but she didn't have one of those.

Beside her, the seat cushion creaked. "What are you doing?" she groused.

"Can a guy get comfortable?" Cooper muttered. She cracked open one eye to find his attention locked on the rearview mirror.

"Can a guy watch the road?" she snapped, sitting upright. "Jesus. What is it with you and your attention span?"

He tore his gaze away from the mirror—for all of five seconds. And then it was back on the rearview mirror again. "Do you see it?" he asked impatiently.

She sighed and craned her neck, searching the side mirror for... "What? The shitty silver car?"

"Yes," he insisted. "I've seen it before."

"I've seen hundreds of shitty silver cars. I don't think you get a prize for that."

He blew out a long breath. "Would you just...you don't think someone could be tailing us, do you?"

She closed her eyes again. "No. I don't think Detective Bitch cares about us quite that much."

She heard Cooper choke back a laugh. "Uh. I think it's Detective Beitch."

"That's what I said."

He laughed—a good, long laugh. Calla couldn't help her own small smile.

The mood in the car lightened considerably after that. She still caught him glancing at the rearview mirror, but eventually the silver car turned off the road, and he finally relaxed.

"You were going to tell me something at school," Cooper said after some time had passed. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the whine coming from the engine. Calla wasn't confident that they wouldn't blow up at any given second. "Before I went all Fight Club in the hall. Speaking of which, thanks so much for the backup."

"You're on a roll today," she muttered, sitting up straight. She twisted her neck, trying to work out a kink on the right side. "Picking on Sahein wasn't a good look, you know. All things considered."

"I really don't give a shit." Cooper's grip on the steering wheel tightened. 

"I can tell."

"You would have done worse," he fired back.

"Yes," she amended. "That's why it was best to let you handle the situation, my little lamb."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck off."

She cackled, thoroughly pleased with herself. But just as she was patting herself on the back for effectively changing the subject, Cooper sighed. "You're avoiding the question."

"What question?" she asked, her eyes wide and round and all too innocent.

He wasn't buying it. "You were going to tell me something. And don't deny it, either."

"It was nothing."

"It sounded like something." He paused. "You look exhausted."

Perceptive. She settled further into her seat, massaging the side of her neck. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Cooper tapped the steering wheel. "Dr. Peterson says that verbal communication is good for trauma."

"Dr. Peterson also said that we would most likely make a glowing recovery." She gestured to the road ahead. "We're currently on the way to ask a drug dealer for his list of buyers so we can track down a killer and take revenge. Would you call that a glowing recovery?"

Cooper considered her question. "That's a very glass half-empty mentality. Let's reframe. We're currently on the way to ask a friend for his list of contacts so we can mete out justice."

"Remind me to tell that to the judge."

Cooper shot her an exasperated look. "You're stalling. Would you just spill? What is it that's bothering you?"

Just then, a light on the dashboard flickered. Cooper cursed. "Perfect timing, as usual. Gotta make a quick stop for gas." He held up a finger. "Hold that thought, would you?"

Calla would have been more than happy to hold that thought for the rest of her life, but Cooper could be rather persistent when he wanted to be. Was it worth it, to fight him on this? He already knew so much. What was one more detail? 

They took the next exit and found a nearby gas station. Calla watched Cooper slip outside to fill up the tank—watched the way he moved, always so unsure of himself. And as she watched, she debated. 

To tell, or not to tell?

Her window was closing fast. Cooper retreated back into the relative warmth of the car, shivering to ward away the cold outside. The silence between them was palpable after listening to the failing engine for so long.

"So." He faced her. "What's up, doc?"

She stared down at her hands, silently reciting the words that she could not say. I can't sleep. Because when I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, I see his face. The little boy. 

Calla thought of him then. Fair-haired. Squealing with laughter. I remember him...and I don't. And those are the memories that haunt me—the ones I can't remember. Do you understand? Do you see? There are some things even you could not forgive, Cooper Daniels.

Calla had used the extra time he'd given her while filling up the tank to organize her thoughts. A part of her wanted to bury the matter deep—so deep that even she would never touch it again. But repressing unpleasant memories had backfired in the past. She couldn't afford to lose her shit like that again.

Besides. Maybe this was what she needed—to speak the truth of it into existence. Maybe then she could sleep.

Maybe then she could forget again.

She blew out a breath. "Fine. I've been having strange dreams. But they aren't dreams, exactly. They're memories. Old memories."

She expected him to crack a joke. Cooper excelled at cracking jokes. Instead, he watched her with an attentiveness that made her skin crawl.

I guess that's my cue to keep going. She soldiered on. "I don't know where the memories are coming from, or why." The pounding in her head grew suddenly worse. "But it feels like it did before."

Cooper cleared his throat. "And by before, you mean...when you couldn't remember Tracy? About what happened that night?"

"Yes."

Another beat of silence passed. "Is this about Venus?"

"No. I remember that night perfectly well. Her blood isn't on my hands."

He processed that answer. "Okay. If this isn't about Venus, then what is this about?"

The fuel line jerked in the tank, the flow of gasoline coming to an abrupt halt. Cooper practically jumped out of his skin. Cursing, he hurried back outside. Calla steeled her resolve while he twisted the tank's cap back on.

Cooper waited to press her further until they were back on the road, blazing toward the city at an astonishing forty-five minutes per hour. He merged back into traffic and said, "Go on."

Calla turned away, focusing on the concrete jungle outside her window. But it wasn't the buildings she saw—it was the little boy with golden hair and perpetually sticky fingers, his dimples popping out as he giggled, a dinosaur clenched in his fist. "I'm referring to my brother."

Cooper's head whipped in her direction. The car swerved, vibrating violently when they crossed onto the edge of the road. "Your broth—"

"Cooper!" She shoved his shoulder, irate. "Focus!"

He swore as he righted the vehicle, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You have a brother?"

"Had," she emphasized. "A long time ago."

"You've never talked about him." His voice was hoarse with some emotion she couldn't name.

She sighed, trying to dredge up what little she did remember. "He wasn't really a part of my life. I was only four or five when he died. He was just a toddler." She frowned. "I don't even know if my memories of him are real. My mother threw out all his pictures a long time ago. And his bedroom..."

What's behind that door?

An empty room.

"Jesus." Cooper swallowed, his throat bobbing. "How did he die? I mean...what happened?"

She stared at his profile. He had an intense, anticipatory sort of frown on his face. Calla realized then that he truly did want to know what had happened. Not because he understood where this conversation would inevitably end, but because he could empathize. Because he was good—good at his core, in his very blood and bones.

But she'd seen a different side to him. She thought of the way his eyes had burned as he tossed Tom Sahein against the lockers like a bag of sand. He had not been gentle or kind or empathetic. Not then.

Everyone has their breaking point. What they do with the pieces they have left...now, that's where things get interesting.

"I don't know what happened," she said at last. "I don't remember."

The car slowed as they rolled up to a red light. Cooper looked at her then, and in his eyes, she saw the dawning realization.

"He was just a baby," he said, still staring at her.

She clenched her teeth until it hurt. "I know."

A car behind them laid on the horn. They both jumped. The light had turned green.

Cooper cursed and stomped on the gas pedal. "Sorry," he muttered, as if the asshole behind them could hear him. She watched every flicker of emotion that played across his face as he navigated the narrow city streets; doubt, disbelief, horror, resignation. And then, most surprisingly of all—grim refusal.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I don't believe it."

She wanted to scream. "Cooper—"

"This isn't about you," he interjected, catching her off guard. "I know...I know about the thing inside you." They locked eyes, just for a brief moment—he had to watch the road, after all. But something about what he'd said struck a chord within her.

I know about the thing inside you.

"You couldn't have killed your brother." He stared resolutely ahead. "Your mom wouldn't have been able to cover that up. There would be a record of it, of someone marking his death as...as suspicious. People in this town remember shit. You don't think the sheriff would have made the connection with you when dead bodies started turning up?"

She frowned. She didn't want to believe his half-baked excuses—she was sure he was just trying to justify their continued friendship. After all, he wouldn't be able to look in the mirror if he knew she'd committed fratricide against a child.

But there was something very logical about his explanation. As far as she could recall, her mother had always been an affectionate woman. Warm, even. Surely that goodwill would have been tainted if Calla had killed her own brother?

And the town...yes, the town would have talked about something that scandalous, even if it had only been a rumor. They would have had a field day with a juicy piece of gossip like that. The Parkers, they would have whispered. Did you hear? Strange girl, that one.

If lies spread like wildfire in a town like Greenwitch, then the truth spread even more quickly still.

But no one had ever uttered so much as a word about her dead brother. Her mother had practically forbade any mention of him, selling off his old things and locking away the rest in that empty room.

And Calla—with her frozen, black heart—had forgotten all about him, casting him aside as her mother had. His role in her life had been irrelevant. A mere blip on her radar.

Until now. Why now?

"We're here," Cooper said tentatively, afraid to break the spell that bound her in silence.

She blinked. They'd parked in front of what looked to be some sort of sports bar—all glossy windows, neon signs and thousands upon thousands of beer caps nailed into every inch of available wood.

"This is where Ryan works?" she asked, skeptical.

Cooper nodded, silent. Despite his bravado, her revelation had rattled him.

She sighed. "Just remember to stick to the plan."

Bitter wind cut at her skin when she opened the passenger door. Bracing herself, she stepped outside. Cooper hesitated only a moment before following her.

Inside, the establishment was more of the same—an eclectic assortment of neon signs, beer caps, and row after row of red booths that had seen better days. An overly perky hostess sat them in the far corner, per Calla's request. The seat cracked beneath her weight.

Cooper glanced over his shoulder. "He should be here."

"He better be," she muttered darkly, pulling one of the sticky menus toward her.

Cooper splayed his hands on the tabletop. "Calla—"

Oh, here we go. She shot him a dark look. "We're not talking about my brother," she cut in, halting him mid-speech. "So drop it."

"Come on." He slid his hands back in his lap and leaned forward, bracing his chest against the edge of the table. "Why is all of this coming up now? Do you think there's a connection?"

"Do I think there's a connection between my dead brother and your dead girlfriend?" she asked tonelessly. "I don't see how."

"But—"

"Cooper?"

They both turned at the sound of his name. Ryan stood one table over, a wet washcloth in hand. "Coop?" he repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It is you. Hey, man." His eyes darted over to Calla. She saw something there—surprise, maybe? "Calla, hey. How've you been?"

"Been better," she started slowly, putting down her menu.

Cooper cleared his throat. "Ryan. Hey. D'you mind if we, ah, talk to you for a minute?"

Ryan tossed a searching look over his shoulder. "Boss is in the back," he mused, tossing the wet washcloth onto the neighboring table. He slid into the booth beside Cooper, wary but intrigued. "Sure. Just for a minute. What's up?"

Cooper and Calla exchanged a glance. She'd run through this exact scenario at least a dozen times, had rehearsed what she would say and how she would say it when the time came. But now, none of her preparation seemed adequate.

She clasped her hands in her lap. "We need a favor."

"A favor?" Ryan asked, still intrigued.

Cooper cleared his throat. "Yeah. We, uh...we sort of need a list of all your old buyers."

Ryan stared at him. And then at her. He laughed nervously. "You're serious?"

Cooper's face had gone pink. "Told you this would be awkward," he muttered, directing the words at her.

Calla scratched her jaw, feigning embarrassment. "Ryan, we wouldn't ask if we didn't absolutely need the information."

He leaned back, his eyebrows crawling dangerously close to his hairline. "I'm not in that business anymore—"

"We know," Cooper said quickly, cutting him off. "It's not about you, man. I swear. It's..." He hesitated. "It's complicated."

"I think I can keep up," Ryan said, his words dripping in sarcasm.

He's not budging, Calla thought, annoyed—but not at all surprised. It certainly would have been easier if he'd been overly helpful about handing over the list. But not at all realistic. "It's about Rachel," she blurted. 

Ryan's head snapped in her direction. "Rachel Smith?" he asked, disbelieving once more.

No. The other one, she wanted to fire back. Instead, she shrugged, her eyes dropping to the table.

That was Cooper's cue. "If we tell you something...can you keep a secret?"

Calla's hands balled into fists in her lap. Don't let your temper get the best of you, she reminded herself. This is necessary. There's no other way.

She knew this, because she knew the way Ryan's mind worked. As a small-time dealer, he'd once been in the business of secrets—and he wouldn't be willing to part with a secret like this, not without the right kind of motivation.

And wasn't revenge the best motivation of all?

Calla glanced up in time to catch Ryan's incredulous frown. "Yes. You know I can."

She braced her elbows on the table. "Rachel...she was my best friend."

He looked away, uncomfortable. "I know that."

"I think about her every day," she went on, hoping to appeal to his better nature. What a dreadful thing to have. "That night at the mansion, Cory told me something about her death. He insisted he wasn't the one who killed her."

Ryan's focus snapped back to her face. Calla and Cooper rarely spoke about that night, even in passing. The novelty of it had caught his attention, just as she'd hoped it would. "Cory lied. He's a liar."

There was an intensity to his voice that gave her pause. "I thought so for a long time. But then..."

Cooper pursed his lips. "Venus."

Ryan glanced between them. "I heard that was an accident," he said, though he sounded uncertain. "I'm sorry about her, Coop. I know you two—"

"Is that all you heard?" Cooper interrupted, skeptical. "Because everyone seems to think I had something to do with it."

Ryan hesitated only a moment. "Yeah. I heard. The rumors sounded like a load of bullshit, though."

"Someone's trying to set me up." Cooper looked at him more directly then. "They're trying to pin the murder on me. Sound familiar?"

Calla held her breath. This was it—this was the moment that would decide everything.

A hard look had crept onto Ryan's face. He stared at his hands, clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. "Did I ever tell you how I got caught?" he asked suddenly, derailing their conversation.

Calla and Cooper shared a glance. Cooper cleared his throat. "No."

"Someone snitched," Ryan said, his voice tight. Apparently, the sting of betrayal still ran deep. A good sign, considering what they were trying to do here. "No, not someone. It was Cory. I know it was Cory. His dad was the one who busted me, right? That's not a coincidence." 

Cooper hesitated. And then he nodded. "You're probably right."

Ryan's mouth flattened into a thin line. "I know I'm right. Cory completely destroyed my reputation. He set me up that night at the dance. He knew if he needed a scapegoat for the murders, I was right there. Easy pickings."

He snorted and shook his head. His words—hard and bitter—filled Calla with grim satisfaction. Satisfaction, because she knew she had him exactly where she wanted him. 

Calla herself had long since put two and two together; Cory had intended to use Ryan as a scapegoat. That much was true. But if they could convince Ryan that Cory had help—that someone else had been involved in smearing his good name—then they just might be able to convince him to hand over the list of names.

"You're right. But Cory isn't the only one who knew you were dealing that night," Calla said, not unkindly. But the implication was there: his other buyers would've known where to find him. And if someone had tried to take advantage of that fact...

"No," Ryan said slowly, realization dawning. "No. He wasn't the only one." His eyes met hers. "You're telling me there's a chance someone else tried to set me up? Who? Why?"

She paused, considering. Finally, the imbecile understands. "We don't know who, or why. But if Cory had help, they're just as responsible for what happened to you as he was." She sighed. "It's not much of a chance. But..."

"But it's a chance," Ryan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Alright. I'll give you the names." His eyes narrowed. "But this stays between us."

"Seriously?" Cooper choked out, despite the hard look Calla threw his way. "You'll give us the list?"

"Yeah." Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "Cory was a piece of work, but he really wasn't all that bright. If he had help..." He considered them both. "You really think this has something to do with Rachel? And Venus?"

Calla wasn't willing to divulge much. But she shrugged and said, "Like I said. There's a chance."

His gaze lingered on Cooper. "Alright, then." He reached over and plucked a napkin from the dispenser with a flourish. A pen materialized in his hand, and then he bent over the table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote down a list of forty-seven names.

Finally, Ryan sat back. He pushed the napkin in her direction. "There are your names. Those were my regulars. If you're right, someone on that list helped ruin my life. And now they're trying to ruin yours," he said, gazing at Cooper. "Do with that information what you will. I don't care." He smiled grimly. "Snitches get stitches."

Calla stared at the napkin. Three names in particular stood out to her.

Gareth Walker. Astrid Baker. Mike Richardson.

"Blake isn't on the list," Cooper blurted, voicing her own thoughts.

Ryan shook his head. "Nah. Blake's never run like that." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "He's a good guy. Smart, too. Smarter than people give him credit for. Real quick with the tech stuff. Computers, phones. I think he just gets a bad rep because his brother's a goof."

"Haven't seen him around much lately," Cooper admitted. Calla had to agree. Or maybe they'd just been preoccupied.

"You wouldn't. He's been taking online classes at some community college. Guy's running himself into the ground trying to get ahead." Ryan started to stand. "I've got to get back to work. Let's forget we had this conversation. Shall we?"

Cooper nodded, relieved. But Calla's focus had shifted elsewhere—to a familiar figure sitting at the bar, laughing with a burly, bald-headed man in a leather jacket. A walking cliche.

"Ryan?" she asked, before he could turn away. He shot her a questioning look. She nodded toward the bar. "Does the detective come here often?"

Cooper followed her line of sight. He stiffened. "Is that...Detective Michaels?"

Ryan shrugged. "Yeah. He's a regular. Can't blame the guy for wanting to ditch town, though. You seen the way people treat him?"

"Yeah," Calla murmured. She gave Ryan a grateful smile. "Thanks. For everything."

Ryan inclined his head and returned to cleaning his tables, whistling under his breath. Cooper shoved aside his menu. "You know what? I'm not that hungry."

"Neither am I." She slid out of the booth. "Let's get out of here."