Calla knew they were in trouble. And not just because of the note—but because of the stubborn set of Cooper's jaw.

"Cooper—" she started, wary. But she might as well have been speaking to a brick wall. Ignoring her, he sprinted across the parking lot with the sort of single-minded focus that was sure to get them both killed.

Calla groaned and followed after him, fastening her leather bag across her shoulder.

"Cooper!" She overtook him easily and grabbed the back of his shirt. "Stop and think—"

"No." He stumbled at her touch and caught himself against the bumper of his car. It shuddered at the impact, and Calla wondered if it might fall apart right then and there. "We're running out of time. Didn't you read the note? We've got maybe fifteen minutes left to find Vincent and—"

"And what?" she asked, exasperated. "Can we just think about this for—"

"NO!" His voice broke. He faced her, skin flushed with anger and exertion. "No. You don't get to do this. Not now." He jabbed her in the sternum with his index finger, chest heaving. "When do you ever stop and think? You do what you want when it pleases you, and we all have to deal with the consequences after the fact. That's why we're in this mess in the first place, isn't it? Because of—"

Calla slapped him.

He drew back and lifted a hand to his cheek, staring at her with a mixture of loathing and surprise and something else—dawning realization. She watched the manic light drain from his eyes, slowly at first, and then all at once. His shoulders slumped.

"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his face with a pained grimace. "Damn. That hurt."

"Good." She held out her hand, smiling somewhat when he flinched. "Your keys."

He stiffened, immediately on the defensive. "I told you—"

"Would you shut the fuck up, just this once?" She wiggled her fingers. "Keys. Now. I'm not letting you drive like this."

"Like...what?"

"A deranged fool." She rolled her eyes. "I may not have my license, but I'll get us to the highschool in one piece, at least."

His hand fell from his face. "Wait. We're going to the highschool?"

"Yes."

"You mean it?"

Another flick of her fingers. Impatience—and anticipation—brought the beast roaring to the surface. "We're on the clock. Remember?"

Cooper pulled his keys from his front pocket and dropped them in her waiting hand. "Try not to break the rearview mirror again."

Despite her bravado, when she slid into the driver's seat, her hands shook. She quickly jammed the keys into the ignition to hide the unexpected tremor—but the engine remained cold and unresponsive to her touch.

"Damn," she muttered.

Cooper dropped into the passenger seat with a huff. After several failed attempts to start the engine, he groaned. "Just turn the key—"

She twisted to face him. "If you tell me how to start a goddamn car, I'm going to strangle you and drag your lifeless body over to that dumpster." She tried the ignition again. And again. Until finally, she slammed her hands against the wheel. "Fuck this stupid, worthless car!"

"Hey!" He swatted her shoulder. "She's never going to start if you treat her like that."

Calla drew in a deep breath through her nose. "Cooper."

"Just..." He buried his hands in his hair. "Try to relax."

"Are you relaxed?"

He let his hands fall into his lap. "Of course I'm relaxed. Why wouldn't I be relaxed? Just because my best friend has been kidnapped by some lunatic—"

Calla tried the ignition one last time and the engine roared to life. Cooper let out a cry of joy, his hands flying to the dashboard.

"That's my baby!" he crowed.

"Freak," she muttered, not bothering with the seatbelt as she careened out of the parking lot and onto the main road, ignoring Cooper's nervous commands to go easy on the brakes.

"Cooper," she said at last, forcing the words through her teeth. "Will you just let me drive?"

"Sorry, sorry." He held up his hands, sinking further into his seat. "I'd just feel better if you had a license."

"And I'd feel better if we weren't in this situation at all."

They both went quiet at that. Quiet, until Cooper finally said, "What do you think the note meant? It said meet us at the highschool. Like...us as in Vincent and whoever the killer is—"

"Astrid," Calla corrected automatically.

"—or us as in the killer and an accomplice?" he finished, absently massaging the back of his scarred hand.

Her eyes darted to the clock on the dashboard. "I don't know. But I do know Astrid couldn't have overpowered Vincent all by herself."

"Maybe she didn't have to." Cooper closed his eyes. "Maybe she...threatened him, or something."

"Or something," Calla muttered. She thought of Blake then—how he'd avoided her for weeks now. I should've cut his throat that night in Stephanie's bedroom, she thought viciously. His death would've been glorious. And watching Stephanie squirm as she tried to explain the dead body in her room...an added bonus. Two birds, one blade. "We should expect the unexpected."

"We didn't expect this," Cooper said miserably. "What do you think prompted it? Taking Vincent like that, I mean."

Calla shook her head. "Our visit to the hospital. Astrid probably found out Tom was awake—"

He swore. "She knew her cover was blown. And Vincent...you think she still has sour grapes about what happened between them?"

Calla glared at the road ahead. To their right, a break in the trees revealed the familiar outline of the highschool. "Considering she just kidnapped him? I'd say, yeah. She does."

On that happy note, they turned onto the drive that wound up to the school, which looked much as it always had: a sprawling mass of red brick and not much else. A single flag mast stood vigil in the front lawn, overladen with brown grass and spindly weeds.

Calla scowled at the sight of the building that had taken so many hours of her life—endless days spent staring at whiteboards and computer screens, wondering blithely if there might be more to life elsewhere. Wretched town, indeed.

As soon as Calla threw the gearshift into park, Cooper asked, "Why are you doing this?"

She stared ahead at nothing and no one. "Doing what?"

She felt his eyes on her, analyzing her profile. "This. Before, at the mansion...you said you came for me. Not Vincent." He went quiet for a moment. "So why are you coming for him now? After...after everything that's happened?"

After everything. Her knuckles went white against the steering wheel. "I'm not doing this for him," she said heatedly.

"Then why? Revenge?"

Revenge. The word lingered in the air. Calla yearned for it—yearned for the promise of death, yearned for the taking of the one who had taken from her so many times before. Except...

This wasn't revenge. She was playing into the hands of a killer, rushing headlong into a trap with eyes wide open. Revenge implied there was a sort of...victory to be had. A triumph of the odds. But there would be no victory in this, no glorious triumph. She could feel it, just as surely as she could feel the leather beneath her hands and the lingering freeze in the air.

This was a death sentence. So why had she come?

Cooper was still looking at her, still waiting for his answer. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Let her fingers slip from the steering wheel. 

The truth stuck between her teeth, bitter like pomegranate. You know who I am. You know how I think. You see me. Words she'd spoken long ago. Words that drove her forward now. I came there for you.

Softly, she said, "My reasons haven't changed."

She couldn't decipher the look on his face, so she killed the engine and stepped out of the car, scanning the parking lot for any sign of life—any car, any bus, any hint that someone might've thought to drop by the school, if only to keep an eye on things. But the place was a ghost town.

Her hand drifted to the leather bag at her side, fingers grazing the edge of the lockpicks she'd hidden in the innermost pocket. "If you've got any weapons stowed away in your trunk, now would be a good time to speak up."

Cooper frowned at her from the other side of the car. "Of course. Let me just grab my handy-dandy bazooka—"

She slipped the lockpicks out of her bag and stuffed them in her back pocket. "Right. Do you have anything useful in your car? Anything at all?"

He peered through the passenger window, appraising the contents on his floorboard. "There's an empty water bottle. Oh, and a pencil. It's broken, though."

"Excellent," she said dryly, tossing aside her bag. She slammed the door shut. "I'll brain Astrid with a broken pencil."

"If anyone could do it, you could."

The compliment fell flat. "Right," she muttered, striding toward the gymnasium's entrance. "Here goes nothing."

"Wait." Cooper hurried to keep pace with her. "What's the plan?"

"We go in. We grab Vincent. We get the fuck out."

"Okay. Call me a pessimist, but I feel like that plan is probably missing a few steps—"

Calla spun around. "Cooper. We don't have the time." She shoved him. Hard. "You wanted to do this. Remember?"

He threw up his hands. "I know. It's just...this is a terrible idea. Isn't it?"

"Of course it is. But it's the only idea we've got."

They shared a wary glance before scaling the staircase that led to the gym. The climb stirred unwanted memories: of a dark, cold night and the hard press of steel at her back, biting at her skin as she ascended the same grand staircase she'd once roamed as a child, giggling with wild abandon over games of hide-and-seek. 

Calla had made the climb alone that night—but she'd been alone and armed, at least.

"Alone? You're never alone, Calla darling."

Calla stopped abruptly. Cooper stumbled into her, his chest brushing her back. "Calla? What's wrong?"

She closed her eyes. That high, mocking voice. It's just a trick of the wind, she told herself, powering through her panic and the growing ache in her skull. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" She tensed at the wisp of laughter on the air—at the lingering words rattling around inside her head, spoken in that same sweet falsetto: "I will always be with you."

Tracy is dead. She's dead, dead, dead. You're only hearing things.

Calla shook her head to clear her thoughts. She didn't have time for splitting headaches and vengeful spirits. Tracy would just have to greet her in the afterlife like everyone else.

"Is it locked?" Cooper whispered as they scaled the final steps. He bent over and planted his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

Pathetic. Calla rolled her eyes and gave the handle a try. Unsurprisingly, the door opened at her touch. "I guess not." She glanced down at him. "Whatever happens, just...focus on Vincent. Nothing else. Got it?"

He straightened, eyes troubled. "And you?"

She smiled. "Astrid is mine." And with that, she opened the door and stepped inside the school.

Cooper shadowed her steps, his breath ghosting across her cheek. They'd emerged in the same stretch of hall where the bathrooms were—an ironic twist, though Calla imagined this particular setup had been meticulously thought out beforehand. Of course Astrid had brought them here, to this place. 

Calla's eyes dropped to the floor. Rachel had died just there, against the wall. Left to bleed out like so much trash.

Forgotten. Unwanted.

Astrid will pay for her sins.

The sound of something heavy striking the floor drew their attention down the hall, to the set of doors that opened into the gymnasium. Cooper's hand fell to her shoulder. A brief, warm touch. And then it was gone.

They crept forward, keeping close to the walls. Calla wondered if Cooper felt as ridiculous as she did. When their eyes met, he shrugged as if to say, what else can we do?

They paused at the edge of the doorway. Calla peered around the corner, overly cautious. Natural light flooded the gymnasium, painting it in soft hues of orange and brown. Her eyes immediately snagged on a metal chair in the center of the court. And in that chair—Vincent.

His ankles and wrists were bound, like a hog readied for slaughter. A gag of duct tape fastened across his mouth and blood caked his hair, with more coating his bare shoulders and the neckline of his shirt. Though his eyes were closed, the steady rise and fall of his chest provided some modicum of relief.

Alive. He's alive.

"Vincent," Cooper whispered. He rushed past her—out of bravery or stupidity or desperation, or maybe even some combination of the three. Calla watched him go, irritation warring with alarm. The moron was going to get himself killed.

She swore and hurried after him, hating how very exposed she felt out on the court. She looked to the bleachers, searching for any sign of—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

A short figure stepped from the underbelly of the bleachers, bringing their hands together in a mocking sort of applause. Calla froze. So did Cooper, skidding to a halt several paces away from Vincent, who did not stir. It was only then that Calla wondered if he might be dead after all.

"Oh, bravo." Stephanie grinned at them both and sketched a low bow. "I didn't think you two would show. But since you're here...let's have a bit of fun. Shall we?"