"You want me to what?"

"Flirt with her." Calla appraised her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The curls Cooper had grown so accustomed to were gone, replaced with a curtain of sleek red hair that was utterly unfamiliar. How she'd managed to tame it, he couldn't guess.

"Flirt with her," Cooper repeated, fidgeting with his shirtsleeves. "You literally just said Steph could be involved in my girlfriend's murder."

"Yes."

He stared at her. "And you want me to flirt with her?"

Calla waved a hand, dismissive to the last. "I told you. Stephanie has a hand in this. And if she's blackmailing Blake..." She scowled at her reflection. "I need to figure out how much she knows. Or if she knows anything at all."

"Of course she knows something," Cooper muttered unhappily. "She always does."

"Yes," Calla said, impatient. She turned away from the mirror to pin him with a look. "But does she know anything of importance? If she somehow got her hands on Tom's missing memory card, she could have evidence against me."

"Or not," Cooper pointed out. "For all we know, Tom caught Cory heading upstairs that night. Not you."

She shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. After learning about Blake's predicament, I'm not willing to take that chance."

Cooper sat on the edge of her bed and stared down at his hands, glum. "And you think Blake's going to help you with this...why?"

He was still trying to wrap his head around the finer details of Calla's latest scheme. The way she saw it, Rachel and Venus had fallen victim to an accomplice of sorts—someone who'd worked closely with Cory...up until Calla had tossed him from the third floor like a sack of flour. And Stephanie, given her crush on the sociopath and her affinity for gossip, seemed a likely candidate.

Why they would trust one of the other suspects to determine the validity of that assumption was another matter entirely.

"Because," Calla explained patiently, breezing past him to rifle around in her closet, "Blake has a stake in this game. He needs evidence wiped. So do we. A temporary alliance is necessary."

"And if he's the one who set me up in the first place?" Cooper pushed, giving voice to the bitter thoughts that had been plaguing him since his initial conversation with Calla late last night, when she'd called him to share everything that she'd learned from the witless wonder.

"If that's the case," Calla called over her shoulder, "he was either blackmailed into doing it, or—and this is very unlikely—he's far more clever than either of us thought and this is all an elaborate trap to get me alone so he can kill me and take vengeance for Cory's death."

"And you're willing to take that risk? What if he does try to kill you when you two go off on your own to find...whatever it is you're trying to find at this party?"

Calla emerged from the closet, a green sweater in hand and a wicked smile on her face. "Well. I'd certainly love to see him try."

"Right." Cooper grimaced. "Can we at least keep the maiming to a minimum? I'd really love to set the right tone for the new year, you know."

"What better tone to set than dealing out proper justice for past crimes?" She laid out the sweater on her bed, thoughtful. "You haven't told me what you think of everything. Not really."

No. He hadn't. He'd been too shell-shocked on the phone last night to say much of anything. Calla's decision to confront Tom would surely have its repercussions, necessary though it might have been.

I think we've spent months hunting down leads based on hard evidence—evidence that's now been thrown into question because of the delusions of a sixteen-year-old kid with a flair for the dramatic, he thought but did not say. We have the fingerprints. So why are we changing tactics now?

Stealing the case file. Confirming the list of buyers. What did any of it mean, if the fingerprints had been a decoy? Cooper felt anger stir in his veins. He'd been feeling more angry than usual these days—which was only fair, given everything he'd gone through. Everything he'd survived.

But it also made him reckless. And recklessness was one thing they could not afford.

"I think..." He hesitated, wrestling his anger into submission. "I think we might be overthinking this. Do you really think those fingerprints were just some clever decoy?"

Calla fingered the hem of the sweater, analyzing its many threads with the same intensity with which she did everything else. "I think there's a good chance the answer is staring us right in the face. Cory was right there all along, wasn't he? Playing his part." She looked at him. "Maybe Stephanie is playing her part. It doesn't hurt to check. Besides," she snatched the sweater from the bed, "this way, we'll be able to take care of two birds with one stone."

Cooper watched her disappear into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her with a tap of her foot. Two birds with one stone. "What does that mean?" he asked, perplexed.

She said nothing. Typical, he thought, falling back on the bed with a huff. He stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He rubbed at the spot absently. He shouldn't be this nervous. It was just a party.

Yeah. Just a party. Those don't tend to end well around here.

Calla emerged from the bathroom wearing the green sweater, tucked artfully into a pair of ripped black jeans that he'd never seen before. He sat up, wary.

"Can't you just tell me what you're planning?"

"No." She ran a critical eye down the length of him. He crossed his arms self-consciously. "You have a terrible poker face. I'm trusting you to keep Stephanie distracted. You're not going to be able to do that if you're thinking about what I'm up to."

"My poker face isn't that terrible," he grumbled.

"Your poker face is passable," she amended quietly, scrutinizing him with those dark, unnerving eyes. And then she grabbed his wrists, catching him completely off guard. Cooper startled at the contact, but he didn't draw away as she rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

"There," she muttered. She leaned in and inhaled deeply, her nose inches from his neck. Cooper went very still. "Good. You wore the cologne."

After the surprise had worn off, he stood and slipped out of her grasp. "Will you stop that?"

"Someone's wound up."

"Someone doesn't like being kept in the dark."

"Pity." She grabbed a leather jacket hanging off the edge of the bed. "I thought you'd be used to it by now."

"You'd think," he muttered under his breath, following her through the house and out to the driveway, his car idling rather loudly in the frigid air. "Calla? I really think—"

"No, no. There's no need to think." Calla paused by the passenger door, one hand braced against the metal frame. "Just...don't let Stephanie out of your sight. Keep her occupied. Whatever it takes."

He glared at her. "I'm not whoring myself out for the cause."

"You wouldn't enjoy it?" She gave him a slow, lazy smile. "Even a little?"

He flushed. "No."

She laughed, and the sound lingered in the air like the last notes of a bell—pure and sweet. Ironic, considering she was anything but.

"Oh, Cooper," she said at last, her breath fading into the air above her head in a lazy, serpentine spiral. "You're such a bad liar."

# # #

Cooper really hated parties.

Mostly, he hated the music. And not because he was the snobby type—he just couldn't stand the way the bass rattled around in his head. It set him on edge.

He took a deep breath and focused on the massive punch bowl in front of him. It's just a bit of liquid courage, he thought as he topped off his third cup. Already his pre-party jitters had faded to a low hum, blurred by the pleasant aftertaste of punch on his tongue.

"Leave some for the rest of us."

Ryan joined him at the punch bowl, cradling his red solo cup close to his chest. "You made it," Cooper observed. Last he'd heard, Ryan had been seriously contemplating ringing in the new year from his couch—a prospect that was sounding better and better as the hours slipped by.

Ryan shrugged. "Manager let me off for the night. I figured, what the hell. Why not?"

Why not? Cooper mused, plastering a smile onto his face. Because this town is a disease, and it'll pull you back in the second you let down your guard. You finally got out, Ryan. And you never should've looked back.

"Man," Ryan continued, sweeping a speculative gaze over the gathered crowd. "Feels like I never left."

Cooper grunted. "Wish I could leave."

"Graduation is sooner than you think," Ryan warned. "It'll be gone before you know it."

And so will the killer, Cooper realized, dread coiling in his stomach. Our window of opportunity is closing.

He'd never given graduation much thought. Given how dangerous his life had become, planning for what came after felt ridiculously hopeful. Foolish, even.

But for the first time, he considered it. He'd go to whatever university threw money at him, and then he'd pack his bags and shake the dust of this despicable town off his shoulders. Greenwitch would be nothing more than a distant, unpleasant memory. Just like the scar on the back of his hand.

He would be free of this town. Free.

Yes, Cooper. You'll be free. And so will the killer you failed to catch...

But how was that his problem? He wasn't a detective. He wasn't even a criminal justice major—at least then he might have an excuse for this obsession with his neighbor and all that had transpired over the last two years. 

Serial killers. Dead bodies. What business did he have sticking his nose into the dark, dangerous mysteries of the world? He was just an eighteen-year-old kid with a penchant for trouble and a devil on his shoulder, whispering deceptively sweet words in his ear like justice and vengeance.

It's more complicated than that, he argued, grappling with his better nature—if it even still existed. This isn't about me. It's about two dead girls who deserved better. It's about...

A flash of red hair came to mind. He banished the unwelcome thought.

"Coop?"

He startled, pulling himself from his morbid thoughts. Ryan was staring at him expectantly, worry lingering in the downward tilt of his mouth.

"Sorry," Cooper said quickly. "I'll be right back." He barely spared Ryan a glance as he downed the rest of his drink and plunged into the crowd. He'd come here for a reason. An existential crisis was not that reason.

Don't let Stephanie out of your sight. Keep her occupied.

Cooper repeated those words to himself as he fought his way through the masses: a vortex of sweat and booze and heat. There's got to be a hundred people here, he thought, dismayed. Calla would supposedly be keeping herself occupied doing...whatever it was that she was meant to be doing. But he didn't see how she was going to get anything accomplished with so many eyes and ears in one place.

Not my problem. Eyes on the prize, Daniels.

He jostled past a throng of juniors who smelled like a tequila distillery and pressed a hand over his mouth, trying not to gag. It was only once the wall of people dispersed—taking the smell of tequila with them—that he was able to breathe again.

And then he saw her: Stephanie, peering through a set of pale pink gossamer curtains at the far edge of the crowd. I wonder who she's spying on this time, he thought sourly, closing the distance between them.

Cooper tapped her on the shoulder. "Steph?"

She jumped, flicking the curtains closed. "Oh!" When she saw who it was, she relaxed. "Coop. Jesus, you scared me."

He grinned. "Sorry," he said, though he didn't feel very sorry at all.

"You're fine." She shot the curtains a sour frown. "I'm being too nosey for my own good, anyway."

He blinked, surprised to hear that particular confession on her lips. "What is it?"

She gave the curtains another cursory flick of her fingers. "Oh, nothing. Mike's out there flirting with some sophomore. The usual."

Cooper tried to conjure up a reason as to why this would be such an issue. And then it struck him. "Aren't you two going to prom together, or something?"

Cooper mentally kicked himself. The promposal had been ages ago, but if Stephanie was secretly harboring a crush on one of the twins, then that put a wrench in his plans.

Maybe not, he amended, watching her expression fall.

"We were supposed to," she admitted, reaching up to twist the ends of her hair around her finger. "But he, ah...forgot?"

"He forgot?" Cooper asked, putting what he hoped was an appropriate amount of disbelief into the question.

Stephanie rolled her eyes and knocked back the rest of her drink. "Yep," she said, smacking her lips together. "Looks like it."

"I'm sorry, Steph," he said, and he meant it.

Whoever had control of the aux ramped up the volume, drowning out her next words. She leaned forward, planting a hand on his chest to steady herself. "It's really not a big deal," she repeated, practically shouting to be heard over the bass now drumming through their feet.

The lights dimmed. Stephanie practically dissolved into shadow; her hand on his chest and the soft sigh of her breath against his neck were the only indication that she hadn't vanished entirely. 

Cooper gritted his teeth. Flirt with her. Calla's voice was in his head again, insistent. He could practically see her disapproving scowl at his lackluster performance. But how was he supposed to flirt when his girlfriend had barely been dead a month?

Stephanie's eyes gleamed in the darkness, absorbing what little light remained. They were pressed close in their little corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Cooper could almost pretend they were alone. Maybe, if he closed his eyes, he could also pretend the girl in front of him was someone else entirely.

He pressed his lips to her ear, self-hatred burning through his veins. Whatever it takes. "Maybe we can make him jealous."

Stephanie's hand slid down his chest. It would be so easy to turn his head, to brush his lips against her cheek. He knew he should. But his heart was thundering in his chest, uncertainty rendering him immobile despite his brave words.

You wouldn't enjoy it? Calla's voice was in his head, mocking him. Even a little?

The thought of her smug smile reignited his anger. He discarded his cup and wrapped an arm around Stephanie's waist. His other hand snaked through her hair, pulling her close. He thought he heard her say his name, but then her hands were slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, flattening over the contours of his abdomen, and it was all he could do not to flinch.

Whatever it takes. 

Cooper brought their lips together. Her mouth tasted like punch and the sharp bite of vodka. He hated himself for this. Hated himself, because as their tongues intertwined and their bodies melded together, pleasure shot through him, heedless of logic or reason.

Calla's laughter rebounded in his head, drowning out the music. He hated her, too. For being right. For her schemes and her laughter and her filthy, bloody hands. 

But mostly, he hated that in the end, his hatred didn't change a thing.

Calla, wherever you are...I hope you know what you're doing.