Cooper couldn't believe he was still alive. 

He sat perched on the back of an ambulance, hands jittery with the aftereffects of adrenaline and the single sip of coffee he'd managed to get down earlier that morning. The EMT had already cleared him, so technically, he was free to go. Technically.

But then there was Detective Beitch to consider.

He'd narrowed his bloodshot eyes in warning at Cooper from the second he'd arrived on the scene, wearing that same grimy tie and a pair of wrinkled navy pants that didn't go very well with what had to be the most foul orange button-down Cooper had ever laid eyes on. The man looked like a deranged bird of paradise, clucking around the parking lot with his hands propped on his hips and his mouth set in a perpetually displeased frown.

Cooper knew what he was thinking. Hell, he knew what everyone was thinking. Here he was, at the scene of a crime—again. And there Calla was, standing at the center of it all with blood on her hands—again.

If their last brush with death had raised eyebrows, this spectacle would surely get the rumor mill running overtime.

"How're you holding up?"

Cooper startled at the question, but relaxed when the twins joined him at the back of the ambulance. "Hey." Cooper managed a half-wave. "I'm fine." He glanced at a second ambulance across the parking lot, where Vincent was busy icing a fractured nose. Their eyes met and he offered Cooper a sheepish smile. "Better than Vincent, anyway. Guy's been kidnapped twice. He's never gonna live it down."

Mike cracked a grin, but it vanished just as quickly when his brother elbowed him in the ribs. "Just got done talking to the detective. Don't worry," Blake said, noting Cooper's quick, questioning glance. "We stuck to the story."

The story. Calla had crafted it with a scrutiny he'd come to expect from her. In short, they would tell the truth. Or a version of it, at least. There would be no mention of steroid abuse, no whisper of conspiracy.

We'll say Stephanie threatened to leak a sex tape of Blake and Jess if Mike didn't do exactly as she asked, Calla had instructed, raising her voice to be heard amid the long, low whine of approaching sirens. The rest of it stays the same. Mike, Blake—you were just doing what you were told. You didn't know anyone was going to get hurt.

The new story would require a few sacrifices—embarrassing rumors about the fabricated sex tape were bound to circulate once news got out—but the alternative would land them all in a world of trouble.

"I still think I'm in a lot of trouble," Mike said miserably, echoing Cooper's thoughts.

We all are. Calla's secret is out. Nothing will ever be the same.

Cooper clasped the other boy's shoulder. He didn't know how else to offer comfort. Mike meant well. Mike always meant well. But a girl was dead because of what he'd done. And Cooper, better than anyone else, knew what that felt like.

Mike would have to wrestle with that particular demon on his own. And maybe one day, if he was lucky, he'd forgive himself.

Cooper knew he'd be waiting for that day for a long, long time.

"You did what you had to do for your brother," Cooper murmured. And he meant it. For Vincent, Cooper would've done anything—even if it meant making a deal with a killer.

News flash, Coop. You already did that.

The thought unsettled him.

"Did you know?" Blake asked suddenly.

Cooper removed his hand from Mike's shoulder, tense. Play dumb. "Know?"

"Yeah. You know..." Mike spread his hands. "About Calla and Tracy."

Cooper scrubbed a hand through his hair. Mike had been talking after all. "You told him?" 

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Blake cut him off with a look. "I already knew."

"Yeah. He knew. And he didn't tell me a thing," Mike muttered, sour. "A heads-up would've been nice—"

"You knew?" Cooper asked, interrupting Mike's tirade. He couldn't wipe the surprise off his face. And then a fresh realization dawned. "The computer. You did find evidence on it, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

"I did." Blake rubbed his knees, restless. Mike glanced between them. "I didn't mean to snoop. I was just trying to be careful, for once. Figured I'd export Steph's stash and look through everything myself, just to make sure."

Of course he had. "And you found more than you bargained for."

"I didn't know," Blake said quietly—and maybe a little desperately. "I had no idea what Calla..." He swore. "Look. I already wiped the computer, if that's what she's worried about. And I'm not going to tell anyone what I saw. So please, don't tell her. I don't want her to know that I know."

"What about me?" Mike complained. "She already knows that I know. What's she going to do to me?"

"Jesus." Cooper held up a hand. "She's not going to do anything." Probably. "So you can relax. And I won't tell her anything," he added, exasperated. "Alright?"

"So it's true," Mike said, somewhat accusingly. "You knew about what really happened to Tracy."

Cooper sighed. He could feign innocence, but he didn't think it would get him very far. "Yeah. I knew. I've known for a while."

The twins considered him for a stretch of time, while around them, men and women in uniform scurried across the parking lot. Cooper kept his eyes locked on the pavement; he'd never mastered Calla's knack for careful indifference, and he didn't think showing just how terrified he was would do him any favors.

"You know, I thought Steph was joking at first, about the whole Calla thing," Mike said at last. "Or that it was her idea of a joke. Since she seems to have an...interesting sense of humor." He snorted and fell silent once more. After another moment's hesitation, he cleared his throat. "And when I realized it wasn't a joke, I thought...man. If that's true, if Calla really...if she's really capable of that, I bet she can get us out of this mess. Somehow."

Cooper tore his eyes away from the pavement to stare at him. "That was your first thought?"

Blake seemed equally perplexed.

"I know. I probably should've been more...horrified?" Mike shrugged. "I don't know. It's all I could really focus on in the moment. And even now, after everything...I just don't know if I'm in any position to judge." He hunched his shoulders against the unseasonably cold bite in the air. "It's been two years. Tracy's dead, just like all the others, and there's no undoing that." He looked between Cooper and his brother, desperate. "Is that fucked up?"

Maybe. Probably. Cooper bit back a relieved smile. But if it is, we're in the same boat, brother. "Like you said. I don't know if I'm in any position to judge."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

Calla appeared then, hands tucked in the pockets of an oversized jacket one of the officers had lent her. Cooper might have laughed at the look of alarm on Blake's face at her sudden arrival—but he swallowed his amusement, reminding himself that once upon a time, he'd feared Calla just the same.

And are you scared of me now?

He hadn't been sure how to answer her question, not at the time. But now...

He gave her a sardonic smile. "I feel like there's an insult in there somewhere."

"Of course there is." She glanced between the twins. "Boys."

Blake managed a pained smile. "We were just leaving." He practically shoved his brother off the ambulance. Cooper watched as they trekked across the parking lot, angling toward the stairs where Vincent and Ryan now sat, the former still holding an ice pack against his busted nose. Hovering at the top of those steps was Detective Beitch, who analyzed the twins' approach with an air of suspicion—a man waiting for the punchline of a particularly unfunny joke.

Calla plopped down beside him. "That must have been a riveting conversation."

"It was." Cooper kicked the tip of his shoe against the pavement. He'd promised Blake he would keep his mouth shut. What Calla didn't know wouldn't hurt—

"Blake knows about me. Doesn't he?"

Cooper glared at her. "Jesus. Are you actually omniscient?"

"No. It was just a good guess." She sat back on her hands with a satisfied smile. "One that you've now confirmed."

He folded his arms. "A good guess. Really?"

"Really."

He shook his head, exasperated. "Fine. Just...leave them be. Alright?"

She sat forward. He caught a flash of silver between her fingers—a metal pin. "Don't ask, don't tell." She smiled a grim smile. "If the boys talk, they know what will happen. Besides." She tapped her pocket, where he knew she'd tucked away the flash drive that could implicate not only herself, but also Astrid Baker in a string of grisly murders. "All they have are empty words. I've got the flash drive."

"That's assuming Blake actually wiped the computer," Cooper amended. He was surprised by his own pessimism. "Maybe he's got a backup file somewhere. Y'know." He gave her a significant look. "For leverage. Just in case."

"Thank you for that uplifting observation," she drawled, tucking the metal pin back into her pocket. She sighed. "There's nothing we can do about that now. We just have to...wait. See how things play out."

He assessed her, curious. "That's not really your style. The wait and see approach, I mean. You're more of a—"

"—I know." She crossed her legs, huddling further into her jacket. "And look where it's gotten us."

She had a good point. And he wasn't about to complain, not now that she'd finally decided to take the cautious, reasonable path. Though he couldn't help but wonder why.

Look where it's gotten us.

Maybe Calla's change of heart had nothing to do with caution or reason. He'd seen the look of humiliation on her face in the gym, had listened as Stephanie delivered blow after blow, berating them both for their lackluster efforts to catch the killer—to catch her. She'd led them on a wild goose chase, playing them for fools. Always one step ahead.

Calla's careful plans had meant nothing, in the end. And Cooper knew that thought ate away at her even now, despite her apathetic words.

He massaged the scar on the back of his hand, flexing his fingers to work out the ache that was beginning to build in his tissues. It was the damn cold that did it—drawing out the ghost of pain that still lingered beneath his skin, a reminder of that terrible night in the mansion. Cooper shuddered.

"Cooper," Calla murmured, drawing him out of his own head. She bumped his shoulder. "Look."

He followed her line of sight to a nearby police cruiser, its doors flung wide open. Pendowski leaned against the driver door with his arms folded, a plastic evidence bag dangling from his fingers. Detective Michaels had been crammed into the backseat, sporting a pair of handcuffs.

"What the—" Cooper started to say. But Calla grabbed him by the arm and dragged him off the ambulance. He followed her to the adjacent police cruiser, its lights still flashing. There wasn't an officer in sight.

Together, they crouched by the tailgate. "What are we doing?" Cooper hissed.

Calla motioned for him to be quiet. Listen, she mouthed. She tilted her head in concentration.

Cooper did the same, but all he could hear was the high-pitched whistle of the wind. "Calla," he started. She merely shook her head.

The wind died, and somewhere beyond the cruiser where they now lingered, Cooper caught a snippet of conversation.

"—how the hell she got your gun?"

Pendowski. Cooper was sure of it. He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Calla's.

Someone grunted. "No." Michaels. That had to be Michaels. "I reported it stolen several weeks ago."

"Stolen?" Pendowski asked, skeptical.

"Yes." Cooper could picture the look of indignation on the ex-detective's face. "There was a security breach at my house. The alarms were down for...twenty minutes, maybe. She must have taken it then."

"And where were you at this time?"

Michaels hesitated before answering. "The Diner." 

Cooper snorted. Of course he'd been at the Diner. Spying on him, no doubt.

"The reports I filed should be on record," Michaels continued. "I'm more than happy to—"

Calla tapped his shoulder and jerked her head, indicating they should get the hell back to the ambulance. He nodded in agreement. They'd pushed their luck enough for one day.

They walked as quickly as they dared to avoid drawing suspicion. Once they were out of earshot, Cooper asked, "Did I hear that right? Steph stole the detective's gun?"

"She did." Calla stared resolutely ahead. "The question is, why."

"And how," Cooper added. 

"That one's easy." Calla shrugged. "Blake. You heard Michaels. He said there'd been a security breach."

Cooper sighed. "Right. Okay, so we know how she pulled it off. But why risk stealing a gun from someone who used to be in law enforcement? Unless..."

"Unless?" Calla prompted.

"I mean, it sort of fits Steph's narrative. Doesn't it?" he asked. "If you were supposedly doing all of this for your dead lover, taking his father's gun to finish the job is...kind of fitting, somehow."

Calla looked at him, impressed. "You're right."

He smiled, inordinately pleased with himself. But he still couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there had to be more to that particular story. Sure, stealing the detective's gun made a statement. But was the risk really worth the reward? 

When they returned to the ambulance, Vincent was waiting for them, a blanket draped across his lap.

"Do I want to know what you two were doing, eavesdropping like that?" he asked, straight-faced.

"No," Cooper said, settling next to him. "How's the nose?" 

Calla perched on his other side, sandwiching Cooper between the two of them.

"Hurts. But at least I'm not dead." Vincent fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "Thanks. Both of you. For...for coming. I thought—"

"—we'd leave you for dead?" Calla asked, zipping up her jacket. "I thought about it."

"She's lying," Cooper insisted, elbowing her. "In fact, she's the one who drove us here."

She tsked. "You're going to ruin my ruthless reputation, Daniels."

Vincent smiled, but before more could be said, the door to the gymnasium burst open. In unison, they turned to watch a crowd of uniformed officers spill down the stairs. Stephanie was among them, leaning heavily upon the two officers who escorted her. Handcuffs glittered at her wrists, and Cooper felt a wave of vindictive pleasure sweep through him.

"Didn't mean to, didn't mean to," Stephanie chirped, her voice carrying across the parking lot. Something about her was different. Off, somehow. "They told me to do it. Yes, they did."

Vincent, Cooper and Calla shared a bewildered look. 

"Nasty, nasty," Stephanie sang, head tilted back. Her wild eyes bounced from face to face. "Nasty they are."

"Alright," one of the officers said, patting her arm. "Let's settle down."

"Settle down," she repeated, grinning maniacally.

Calla scoffed. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Vincent glanced at her. "What? What is it?"

She shook her head, disgusted. "Steph's going for the insanity plea."

Stunned, Cooper could only watch as they guided her into the ambulance opposite theirs. Stephanie glanced their way only once, and for a second so brief he wondered if he'd imagined it, she winked.

"Of course she is," Vincent said darkly. "Honestly, I don't care what happens to her. Just so long as she stays the hell away from us." He offered Cooper half of his blanket, which he accepted, draping the end over Calla's knees. She huddled closer, grateful.

They remained like that for a time—silent and warm, wondering what would become of them in the days ahead. Though uncertainty gripped him, ripe and sweet, it was not not entirely unwelcome. For the first time in weeks, Cooper felt the stirrings of hope. He could almost picture a future for himself. Tentative. Bright.

He didn't dare dream beyond that. In this town, dreams were like a disease—something to drag you down and hold you close, until there was nothing left but broken promises and desires gone to dust.

Two months. In two months, he would leave this town for good. But until then, he would lock away his dreams, his hope.

And he would wait.