Cooper didn't sleep well that night.

He kept revisiting the hospital in his dreams, with its bright halls and the pungent aroma of flowers hanging over everything. Well, almost everything. Their sickly sweet perfume couldn't quite mask the scent of antiseptic and—and something else. Something that reminded him of blood and rot and nasty, buried things.

He'd given up on sleep altogether by the time the sun winked over the horizon. And now he was here, hunched over a pot of shitty coffee at the Diner, his work apron tied clumsily around his waist. He stifled a yawn, brain foggy with fatigue.

"I'm waiting," a voice drawled over his shoulder.

Cooper took the pot off the burner and filled the ceramic mug on the counter. "Here," he muttered. Calla's eyes never wavered from the menu in her hands, just as Vincent's eyes never wavered long from her face. He sat beside her grudgingly, though the glances he shot her way every few seconds didn't go unnoticed. "Your beverage. Do you want any sugar or creamer—"

Her lip curled. "No."

I should've known. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Right. In that case, would you like a mortgage or maybe a 401k to go with that bitter ass coffee?"

She clucked her tongue. "Some of us have evolved beyond sippy cups and orange juice."

Beside her, Vincent hugged said cup of orange juice to his chest with a scowl.

"Why do you even bother with the menu, anyway?" Cooper poured a second cup of coffee and discarded the pot, reaching instead for the platter of assorted sweeteners by his elbow. "It never changes."

She set aside the menu and watched as he added a third shot of creamer to his cup. "I hate this foul place," she said, avoiding his question entirely.

The Diner bustled with its usual weekend activity, masking her sharp words. Cooper inhaled deeply—bacon, eggs, syrup. What wasn't to like? "The food really isn't that bad."

"Not this place." She waved a hand. "This entire wretched town. Graduation can't come soon enough."

"Wretched, is it?" Vincent asked, downing half of his orange juice in one go.

She avoided his eye, glaring instead at Cooper's cup of coffee, as if the copious amount of creamer and sugar he'd dumped into it personally offended her. He snatched it out of her line of sight and took a cautious sip. Blech. 

Vincent wouldn't be denied so easily. He cleared his throat, recapturing their attention. "Can anyone tell me why we're here at this ungodly hour?"

"It's nine o'clock," Cooper reminded him. "That isn't ungodly."

"It's a Saturday."

Calla clasped her hands against the countertop. "We're here to discuss certain...developments."

Vincent glanced between them. "Is this about Tom? Were you two able to talk to him?"

"Sort of." Cooper rubbed the back of his neck. "We couldn't say much, with the nurse in the room. The visit was a total bust."

Calla sat back and sipped her coffee, contemplative. "That's not exactly true."

He shot her a dubious look, hand frozen against the back of his neck. "Uh. It isn't?" He shuffled through his memories, searching for some clue he might've missed, to no avail. 

"Tom gave me a name when you left the room." She smiled. He couldn't decipher the gleam in her eyes. "The name."

Cooper and Vincent shared a startled look. "He remembers?" Vincent hissed.

Cooper threw up his hands, incensed. "Why the hell didn't you say anything? We've got to work on our communication."

"Keep your voices down." Her own remained steady. "We're being watched. Closely."

Vincent twisted around, eyes darting across the sea of tabletops and familiar faces. "Watched? By who?"

"Be more obvious about it." Calla scowled and flicked her fingers, indicating the corner booth over her shoulder.

Cooper knew who it was before he looked. "Michaels."

She finished the last of her coffee. "The man's nothing if not predictable."

The detective sat in his usual corner, cradling a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Cooper had expected to find him peering over a menu, surreptitiously stealing glances at the trio from afar. But there was nothing subtle about the detective's stark eye, staring unblinking at their hushed exchange.

Cooper gave him a tight smile, which the detective didn't return.

"Alright," he said, dragging the word out. "What are we going to do about Mr. Gaunt, Pale and Balding?"

"Restraining order," Vincent suggested. At the same time, Calla muttered, "Knife to the back."

Cooper glared at both of them. "Very helpful. Thank you."

"What?" Vincent finished his orange juice and shrugged. "My idea wasn't half bad."

Calla shrugged. "Neither was mine. It worked wonders on his son."

"Regardless," Cooper said, before the two could start a world war. "We've got to do something. He doesn't have a right to follow us around like this. I mean, the guy doesn't even have a badge anymore."

"A restraining order isn't going to deter him," Calla pointed out. "He's clearly obsessed."

Just like his son, Cooper thought, refilling her mug. And just like Tom. They both had to learn their lesson the hard way.

"It's creepy, is what it is," Vincent said, staring forlornly at his empty cup. Cooper rolled his eyes and went to refill it.

Calla shrugged. Took a sip of scalding coffee. Smacked her lips. "We've dealt with worse."

"Right," Vincent drawled. "We all agree, the detective is a problem. But can we rewind for a second?" He gazed at Calla expectantly. "What did Tom say? Who's our killer?"

Cooper turned to her, breathless. She was rubbing her shoulder, as if she could still sense the bullet lodged there. The same bullet that had been meant for him. A reminder that kept him up some nights, tumbling through uneasy dreams—only to wake with a scream lodged in his throat.

"Astrid," she said at last.

The name hung in the air between them for one breathless moment. Vincent was the first to break the silence.

"Astrid," he repeated weakly. "Astrid Baker. She..."

Cooper released the breath he'd been holding. "It all comes back to her."

But Vincent was shaking his head. "No. I don't believe it."

"Well, you'd better start believing it." Calla stared at them each in turn. "Look at the evidence. Her fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. And she practically begged me not to go to the police with what I knew, before the kidnapping." Before Cory, she didn't have to say. "She said whatever she'd done was an accident. Ringing any bells?"

An accident. Cooper's hands shook. "Venus wasn't an accident. Tom wasn't an accident."

"They were collateral damage." Calla gazed at him impassively. He met her stare, unflinching. "They knew too much. She did what she had to do to survive."

He balled his hands into fists to hide the tremors there. "If you're defending her—"

She smirked. "Defending her? Au contraire. You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment."

Vincent blinked, coming back to himself. "Waiting for what moment?"

"Vincent," she said, turning to him. "I think it's time you went home."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not going anywhere."

"This unpleasantness isn't for you to hear."

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeated, spitting the words. "We figure this out together, or not at all."

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "There's nothing to figure out. The less you know, the better." Another smile twisted her lips. "Guilty by association, and such."

"No. No. No." Vincent reached across the counter and gripped Cooper's forearm, catching him by surprise. "Listen to me," he implored. "There's another way. We can do this thing right. Hand off what we know to the police—"

"Oh, yes," Calla agreed, voice sugar-sweet. A red flag if ever there was one. "Officer? Yes, we'd like to submit some evidence. You see, I have these texts on my phone that implicate Astrid Baker in the recent murders. Well, murder, singular. Guess the second one didn't pan out, eh? Oh, and sorry about hiding this from you until now. It must have—" a flick of her fingers "—slipped my silly little mind."

Vincent flushed. "We...we don't have to show anyone the texts. Tom's testimony—"

"Ooh." She clapped her hands together, practically giddy with delight. "Another brilliant strategy. Let's hedge our bets on a boy who just suffered a severe head injury. I'm sure the defense will have a field day with that."

Cooper gently pulled his arm from Vincent's grasp. He hated himself for what he was about to say. "There's just...there's no way to do this thing right, Vincent."

"Astrid...it doesn't make sense. Cooper, please," Vincent begged. "Why would Astrid and Blake work together?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Calla shot back, interrupting their exchange. "Blake's been running back and forth between here and the city all these months, hasn't he? For those tech classes he's taking? He could've bumped into Astrid on campus and struck up a conversation."

"Stephanie," Vincent blurted, desperation seeping into his voice. "You were sure she had something to do with this. What happened to that theory?"

Cooper rubbed his eyes. He wanted to reach out, to console his friend. But he knew he couldn't. Not in this. Vincent would have to face the truth on his own—that the girl he'd once loved had turned out to be no better than the monster sitting beside him even now.

Cooper knew what that was like, to turn away from the truth. To push it down, down, down—where it couldn't hurt you or the ones you loved. And in the end, he'd only been left with scars.

Calla did not soften her words when she spoke. Her fierce expression was at odds with the mundane clamor around them. "Astrid could've been using Steph for information this whole time. Maybe that's how she's involved."

Vincent shook his head but said nothing.

"Astrid and Gareth had it out at the New Years' party," Calla pressed. Vincent's shoulders bowed beneath the weight of her accusations. "Cooper said it himself. She seemed on edge." 

Cooper grimaced. "It's true."

"And before you go spewing any shit to me about Rachel," Calla hissed, snuffing the hopeful light that had ignited in Vincent's eyes, "remember this. Jess and Rach? They got into it, right before the gala." Her eyes positively blazed as she planted her hands on the countertop. "Blake loved Jessica. And so did Astrid. They were best friends, Vincent. Maybe she wanted a bit of petty vengeance and took it too far. And maybe Blake helped cover her crimes because of it. There's your connection. There's your motive. I promise you, Astrid will pay for her sins."

Vincent's head snapped up. "And when will you pay for yours?"

"Enough," Cooper interjected quietly. He felt the burn of the detective's eyes on his face, on all of their faces, searching for answers there. "Enough. We'll talk about this later."

"There's nothing more to talk about." Calla leaned back, eerily calm. Her fury drained away before he could blink. "It's done."

She slipped out of her seat then, aiming for the bathroom. Or at least, Cooper hoped she was aiming for the bathroom, and not for the detective. When she passed him by without so much as a glance, he released a sigh of relief.

Vincent watched her slip out of sight, dazed—as if he were staring at a stranger.

"I'll talk to her," Cooper said quietly. "We'll talk to her."

Vincent wouldn't look at him. "I can't."

"You can. We just have to—"

"Don't you get it? I don't know how to talk to her, Coop." He gazed down at his cup of orange juice. "She's wearing the same face and the same clothes and she has the same laugh, even. But that girl? That's not the girl I fell in love with." He looked up then. A wry smile touched his lips. "I don't know how to talk to her, because I love a version of her that doesn't even exist."

He sounded incredibly sad, as if whatever final tie that had bound them together had finally frayed and snapped beneath the strain of a million odd miles.

"She's trying," Cooper managed. But he wasn't sure if he believed it.

Vincent looked at him a moment longer. "Is that enough for you?"

Cooper thought about that. And then he thought of his mom, of her tears and the sacrifices she'd made for him. "It was enough for Rachel."

Vincent smiled without humor. "And look how that turned out for her."

That's not fair. The words were right there, lingering on his tongue. But they wouldn't come. Who was he to say what was fair? Rachel had died. And what might've been had died right along with her.

Vincent's phone vibrated on the counter between them, interrupting their silent standoff. He frowned at the screen.

"What is it?" Cooper asked, suddenly weary.

"Calla." He inched off the barstool slowly, as if he took the weight of the world with him. "I'll be right back."

Cooper watched him go. It felt as though another great divide had risen between them—a final test, to see if their friendship might survive the fall.

There's nothing more to talk about. Calla's words reverberated in his head, cold and cruel as the winter they'd endured. It's done.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Cooper set out to put on another pot of coffee. When he'd finished, Calla was waiting for him at the counter, her dark eyes tracking his every move.

"I'm right, you know," she said quietly. "There's only one way this ends."

He didn't want to believe that. He had to believe otherwise—had to fight and scream and rage that there could be a better way, a right way. But what he'd said before was the truth of it. There was no right way, not in this.

He sighed, bracing his elbows against the counter. "Did you and Vincent resolve..." He made a vague gesture. "Whatever it is you wanted to talk to him about?"

She gave him a strange look. "Come again?"

"Didn't you just see him?"

"No."

He stared at her. "You texted him. Just now."

"I most certainly did not." She lifted the coffee to her lips, oblivious to the sudden panic that seized him.

Irrational. Unreasonable. And yet—there it was.

"I'll be right back," he forced out, ignoring her protests as he slipped beneath the counter. He skirted around tables and their boisterous patrons and started to untie his work apron, but his fingers got caught in the strings. He twisted his hands, trying to free himself.

"Relax," Calla said over his shoulder. She'd followed him. Of course she'd followed him. His irritation faded to relief as she steered him past Detective Michaels, who watched them go with shrewd eyes. And then they turned the corner and were out of sight. "Cooper. What's going on?"

He tugged helplessly at the back of his apron. Sighing, she spun him around and got to work on the knot at his back. "Talk to me, Cooper."

He shook his head. He couldn't explain the way he felt: like he was sixteen again, standing in an empty parking lot with a grinning sociopath—my mom's waiting—keys twirling around his spiderlike fingers. 

Is she? A question meant to mock, to toy with Cooper the way a cat would toy with an injured bird, too broken to fly.

He clenched his hands, hard enough to tweak the scar there. He welcomed the discomfort, the ghost of pain long past.

"Use your words." Calla's voice cut through his thoughts. A blade of reason, of rationale. "What happened?"

Her fingers made quick work of the knot, and within seconds it unraveled on the floor by his feet. He swallowed thickly, heart racing. "It's Vincent."

"What about Vincent?"

He glanced down the semi-dark hallway. Beyond the bathrooms, the glow of the emergency exit beckoned.

Cooper started down the hall. As he walked, he counted his footsteps to keep a clear head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He paused by the men's restroom. Tried the door. When he found it unlocked, he peered inside, but all was darkness. There was no one inside.

Eleven more steps to the emergency exit. Calla followed in his wake, swallowing whatever questions remained.

He shouldered open the back door and burst out onto the concrete below. Three more steps. Eight. Only then did he pause to take stock of his surroundings: a blue dumpster to his left, flush against the brick; a line of cars parked haphazardly along the curb; and there, discarded near a puddle of rainwater—

Vincent's letterman jacket.

An unseasonably cold wind tore at Cooper's face as he bent to retrieve the jacket, dusting it off out of habit. "Vincent never takes this thing off," he said aloud, hoping someone might hear him and understand.

"Cooper."

He whirled around. Calla lingered by the exit, a piece of paper in hand. It fluttered in the breeze, threatening to rip free of her grasp.

Surprise shot through him, overriding the dread that had started to seep through his veins like poison. His grip on the letterman jacket tightened. "No."

He stared at the scrap of paper that wasn't a scrap of paper at all—but a gilded page torn from the spine of a fairytale book, marred by vivid red ink highlighting a single passage.

Mirror, mirror, here I stand. Who is the fairest in the land?

Calla turned the page, revealing a set of instructions scrawled on the back.

Meet us at the highschool. 20 minutes. Don't be late.