"Oh, God—"

"He fell?"

"He was pushed, I'm telling you."

"Come on, we're leaving—"

Calla, Cooper and Vincent ran to the edge of the deck, where a set of narrow, rickety stairs trailed down to the lowest level of the house. A floodlight illuminated the path to the garage—and the broken body lying prone on the cobblestones far, far below.

"Shit," Calla whispered.

Cooper felt as though the air had been punched out of him. Before he could process what the hell he was doing, he was already halfway down the stairs. "Cooper," Calla hissed at his back.

He descended the final steps and fell to his knees beside the body, unsure of what to do next. Blood had already started to pool across the path, snaking through the cracks and crevices of the dull grey stones. Further off, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses gleamed in the grass; one of the lenses was cracked beyond repair.

And next to the body were the shattered remains of a camera.

"Tom," Cooper whispered, hands hovering over the body. "Oh, God. Tom?"

"Cooper." Suddenly, Calla was there—warm and real and reassuring as she knelt beside him, scraping her jeans across the stones.

"Calla," he croaked. "Help me."

She slipped two fingers beneath Tom's throat, her fierce expression at odds with the low, terrified whispers drifting down from the deck. Cooper pressed a hand over his mouth. He would not throw up. He would not throw up—

"He's alive."

His eyes snapped to her face. "He's what?"

Calla let out a startled breath. "He's alive." She met his horrified gaze. "Call 911. Now."

It all felt so familiar. The frantic digging for his phone. The desperate call for help. Even the conversation with the operator on the other end of the line brought back a host of unpleasant memories.

Tracy. Rachel. Cory. Eighteen years old, and already he'd seen his fair share of death. He wasn't sure he could bear another.

He ended the call and swallowed back bile. Calla stared at him expectantly. "They're on the way," he said quietly.

After that, there was nothing left to do but wait. Wait and wonder.

Because Cooper didn't think that this fall had been an accident. Not after Venus. Not after everything. 

Tom's agonized breaths tore through the air. He didn't deserve this. Cooper ran his hands through his hair until his scalp ached. None of them deserved this.

"Enough." Cold fingers pried his hands out of his hair. Calla's expression remained indifferent, and there was something oddly comforting in that—in the iron strength in her hands and the terrible quiet in her eyes.

"Sorry," he whispered. His mouth still tasted like vomit, but there wasn't anything he could do about that.

She released his hands. "You've got to calm down."

"I know." He tried not to look at the body. No. Not the body, he scolded himself. That's Tom. Tom Sahein. "Do you think he's gonna make it?"

Tom's blood continued its slow march across the stones. Calla watched its progress; something flickered to life in her eyes. A burning sort of hunger. "No."

Why do you ask questions you don't want the answers to?

Cooper swallowed the rest of his questions. Calla had been right from the start.

Maybe he didn't want to hear the answers, after all.

# # #

The first day of the new year went something like this.

Boy falls down the stairs.

Boy survives the fall.

Mayhem ensues.

Within the hour, first responders were crawling over every inch of the house, confiscating booze, blunts, and rounding up the partygoers who'd been stupid enough to linger at the scene of the crime—Cooper and Calla among them.

"What is your relationship to the victim?"

Cooper ran a hand down his face. "We hated each other."

Deputy Pendowski glanced at him over the rim of his notepad. "That's encouraging."

He shot the deputy an exasperated look. "I've got an alibi."

"Yeah. I know." Pendowski's eyes wandered to the cruiser parked across the street. Calla leaned against the hood, her arms folded as she spoke with an EMT. "The redhead and the big guy were with you." He raised a skeptical brow. "Again."

Cooper grimaced. Okay, so it didn't look great that his alibi was reliant (yet again) on his two closest friends. But this time, he had the unadulterated truth on his side. "I'm sure a few people saw us. We were on the other side of the deck when—"

"I know, kid. I know." Deputy Pendowski lowered his notepad. "We've got at least a dozen witnesses who placed the three of you on the far side of the deck at the time of the fall."

The fall. That's a weird way to describe attempted murder, he thought sourly.

"This is just me doing my due diligence." Pendowski tucked the notepad in his back pocket. "Kids are really dropping like flies in this town, huh?"

Cooper stared at him. He didn't know whether to laugh or to scream. Maybe both.

"Hold tight." Pendowski gestured for Cooper to make himself at home against the cruiser. "I'll get you out of here in no time."

Cooper watched him go, exhaustion settling over him. And not just because of the hour. It had been a long night. A long morning, he supposed. The thought made him want to curl up in the back of the police cruiser and close his eyes.

But he couldn't afford to lose focus. So rather than fantasize about his bed back home, he turned his attention to the sea of faces gathered in the front yard—a mix of uniforms and ripped jeans and the disorienting flash of red and blue lights. He spotted Ryan seated on the front steps of the house, hands clasped and shoulders hunched, an officer hovering on the ground below; and there was Vincent, half-asleep on the curb, his head in his hands; and beyond that, standing in the center of the yard with her hands wrapped around her middle, was Stephanie. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips still swollen from the kisses they'd traded in the dark.

Yet for every face he counted in the crowd, there were many more he did not see. Gareth. Astrid. Mike. Blake. All notably absent.

Cooper clenched his fists, fighting back the tidal wave of anger that threatened to swallow him whole. If he were the killer, would he flee the scene? Or would he remain behind in a bid to prove his innocence—and flaunt his crime right under everyone's nose?

Useless. He had no way to answer that question, because he wasn't a killer.

He turned his head. Calla stood several paces away, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Or maybe that was just the mask she'd chosen to wear for this particular occasion. It didn't matter. In the glow of the ambulance, she looked like a creature of hellfire.

Would you leave the scene of your crime? The question lingered on his tongue. But she was too far away. Impossible to reach. Or would you stay and play the part of clueless bystander?

Deputy Pendowski returned ten minutes later to order him home. "You shouldn't be out this late, kid," he said. As if he'd had any say in the matter.

"I'm not a kid," Cooper muttered under his breath, fishing his car keys from his pocket. He'd sobered up considerably over the last two hours. Pendowski hadn't even thought to breathalyze him.

"Cooper." Calla trotted over to his side. Vincent trailed after her, his hands tucked in the pockets of his letterman jacket.

"Hey." He tried to muster a smile, but it came out more as a pained grimace. 

Calla didn't even attempt a smile. "Let's get out of—"

She came to an abrupt halt. Cooper caught himself before he stumbled headlong into her. "Calla?" He almost asked her what was wrong, but then he saw the silver car parked at the end of the street, and he knew.

"Unbelievable," Vincent spit out.

Detective Michaels was just visible through his windshield, his expression inscrutable. Cooper had known the detective would likely follow them to the party, but he'd never imagined the guy would have a whole damn stakeout. How many hours had he been here, sitting alone in the darkness?

"No wonder Cory turned out to be such a creep," Cooper muttered.

Calla snorted and continued forward, bypassing the silver car without so much as a glance in the detective's direction. Cooper tried to hide his relief. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she decided to give the old man a taste of what she'd given his son.

Just ahead, the Mustang gleamed beneath an old orange streetlight—a sight for sore eyes after the nightmare they'd endured.

Calla took them both by surprise when she crawled into the backseat. "Just until you can drop Vincent off at his truck," she muttered by way of explanation. Vincent jerked his chin in what might've been an amiable nod and then fell into the front seat, utterly spent.

Cooper did the same. It took several attempts to coax the engine to life—winters were hard on his old car, and he had a feeling this might be her last. When she finally sputtered to life, he exhaled sharply and tapped the dashboard. "'Atta girl."

"Old piece of shit," Calla muttered from the backseat.

"Would you like to walk?"

"Old, useful piece of shit," she amended, just loud enough for him to hear over the roar of the engine. He didn't have the energy to roll his eyes.

Vincent guided them to his truck; he'd parked two streets over, across from a rusted old barn that nature had almost fully reclaimed. "Happy new year," Cooper called as Vincent stepped outside, infusing his voice with false cheer.

Vincent shot him an exasperated look. "Yeah," he called, closing the passenger door. "Real happy."

Calla wriggled her way back into the front seat with a huff. The air in the car was still just as frigid as the world outside. She blew into her hands, trying to bring some life back into her frozen fingertips.

Cooper remained idling on the side of the road long after Vincent had left, his taillights disappearing around the next bend. Not even the static on the radio could distract him.

"You realize what this means," Calla said into the silence.

Somehow, he knew exactly where her mind had gone. "Yeah." He glanced up at what was left of his rearview mirror. The duct tape had held up. Even after all this time. "It means we were right. There's another killer out there. And they're coming after anyone who's guessed at the truth."

Despite his grim words, a smile twisted her lips.

"I don't know what there is to smile about," he snapped, unnecessarily temperamental.

"I'm smiling because the killer failed."

Cooper looked at her. His surprise chased away his sudden burst of anger. "Failed?"

Calla sank into the old leather, looking almost at peace. "Tom Sahein is alive."

Alive. The word lingered between them. A victorious refrain.

Cooper's fingers danced across the steering wheel. Tap. Tap. Tap. "You think Tom remembers who pushed him?" A long shot. He knew it was a long shot. But he had to believe it hadn't all been for nothing.

"He might," Calla murmured.

But the warm feeling that settled in his chest at her words was only temporary. "And...if he doesn't?"

Her smile faded. "Then the killer walks free."

He closed his eyes. "Which means we're next."

She didn't immediately respond to his dire pronouncement. When she did, her voice was quiet. Contemplative—as if she'd never imagined she'd face death again so soon. "Unless we find them first."