"What the fuck."

"Vincent—" Cooper started, anxiously scanning the street for any overly curious passerby.

"What," Vincent repeated, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, "the fuck."

Cooper went to grab his elbow. "Take a breath. The truck's right there—"

"Fuck you." Vincent batted away his hand. "Fuck you Mr. Need To Fucking Know, because I really needed to fucking know this!"

"Boys," Calla said calmly, stealing the wind right out of their sails. "If you two don't shut the fuck up and get in the truck, I'm going to tie you both to the tree in my backyard, ass naked, so you can ruminate over every stupid thought you've ever had in your entire life, until your balls freeze right off."

Cooper and Vincent traded a wary look. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting in the truck," Cooper mumbled.

No one said a word as they crossed the street and climbed into the truck, the only sound between them their own breath and the click of a button as Vincent angrily jabbed his finger against the console, firing up the heater. "Details," he gritted out, folding his arms against the cold, stagnant air. "Now."

It didn't take long to catch him up to speed. Vincent had never been so prone to questions as Cooper was. Nor did he seem to care for the specifics. This isn't like before, Cooper realized, watching his demeanor harden as Calla laid the truth bare before him. He doesn't want to be involved in this. He has a new life now. A life with Natalie.

A future.

"So." Vincent had relaxed somewhat now that the heat was worming its way through the truck, chasing away the chill. "Stephanie sent the dirt she had on you to Michaels, and he's using it to blackmail you into...doing bad shit."

Cooper glanced in the side mirror, analyzing Calla's reflection. She had her head propped against her knuckles, her elbow balanced against the rear window. "Yup," she drawled. 

"Because he hates your guts. Because you killed his son."

"Yup."

"It was a group effort," Cooper supplied helpfully.

Vincent glared daggers at him. Quiet, that look said. "And now that he's reached the end of his little game," he spat, redirecting his anger to the backseat, "he's going to kill you and anyone involved with what happened five years ago. Stephanie and Cooper and me and the fucking twins and God knows who else."

Calla just sighed. "Probably."

If Cooper were a betting man, he'd say they had about fifteen seconds before she went absolutely apeshit. He could hear her now: Enough with the repetitive questions, you dithering dimwit.

"Fantastic." Vincent twisted around to pin her with a poisonous glare. "You're going to get us all fucking killed."

Cooper's hands flexed in his lap. "Vincent."

"No." He hadn't stopped glaring at her. Hadn't broke eye contact at all. Calla stared right back, utterly disinterested. "No, she needs to hear this. She needs to know what she's done."

"That's not—"

"He's right," Calla said, and Cooper nearly choked on his words. "This long, convoluted mess started with Tracy. With me." She turned her gaze to the window. Cooper didn't imagine she was admiring the scenery. "And I'm going to finish it. One way or the other."

Vincent's eyes narrowed on her slender frame. "How?"

"I'm working on it."

"That's not good enough."

"I said I'm working—"

Vincent slammed his fist into the steering wheel. The truck's horn blared sharply. "Fuck!"

Cooper swore. "Dude, you need to relax."

"Don't you get it?" Vincent asked, facing him. Eyes wide with desperation. "You really think Gerald Nutjob Michaels is going to stop with Calla, or you, or me? This isn't just about us. Natalie's life is in danger, Coop."

"Natalie's going to be fine," Cooper said, trying to soothe him.

But Vincent wasn't in the mood for anything to be smoothed over, least of all his temper. "Michaels isn't going to risk letting Nat off the hook just because she might be oblivious to all of this." He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hands. "She's close to me, and I'm close to you, and you're close to her." He jabbed an angry finger over his shoulder. "And we're all going to get fucked for it."

Calla's voice, dangerously soft, drifted between them from the backseat. "I'm only going to say this one more time. I. Am. Working on it. So unless you have some brilliant way for us to kill this big, bad wolf, I suggest you shut your mouth and let me think, which I cannot do with your constant bitching and moaning." She rested her head against the passenger window with a heavy sigh. "You can throw yourself a pity party some other time. Preferably when I'm not around."

Vincent gripped the steering wheel, the vein in his temple bulging. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down a thousand insults. Cooper watched him, wary. 

"Fine," he spat, slowly relaxing his grip on the wheel. He closed his eyes. Counted to three. "What now?"

"Now," Calla said grimly, "we show up to this stupid reunion, put on a brave face, and pretend like absolutely nothing is wrong."

Cooper could feel the tension in the truck dissipating, second by agonizing second. Even so, Vincent looked ready to refuse. "We promised we would," Cooper pointed out, stopping any further argument from breaking out. "We have to go. It would be weird not to, since we're already in the city."

Vincent scrubbed at his hair. "How the hell are we supposed to act like nothing's wrong?"

"Easy," Calla deadpanned. "Just follow my lead." Cooper caught her reflection once more as she settled back against the headrest, snapping her seatbelt in place in a single, fluid motion. "I've been doing this shit for years."

Vincent grudgingly steered the truck out onto the street, the engine rumbling to life as they picked up speed. He looked tired, Cooper thought. Tired and frustrated and maybe a little defeated, too. As if he were coming to terms with the very real possibility that he would never be able to truly outrun his past.

Cooper could relate to that. "It helps if you pretend you're someone else," he suggested quietly, just for Vincent's benefit. He only wished he could offer more. A way out of this mess, for starters.

"Is that what you do?" Vincent asked dully. They rolled to a stop at the next red light. Engine idling. Heat blasting. "Pretend you're someone you're not?"

"No." Cooper watched the light shift from red to green. The truck eased forward. "I used to. I liked to think I was this normal, nice guy who had to deal with a lot of bad shit for no reason, and convinced myself that if I just kept running from the things that weren't normal or nice," he met Calla's curious stare in the side mirror, "my life would be perfect. Or at least better than it was."

Vincent frowned at the road ahead. "You are a normal, nice guy. You always have been, Coop."

Cooper thought of the shoebox he'd kept tucked under his bed for so many years. The stolen moments he'd captured and compiled and obsessed over.

He thought of the scar on the back of his hand and the nightmares in his head and the quiet companionship he'd nurtured with a girl who'd butchered the homecoming queen.

"Yeah," Cooper lied. "I guess you're right."

Navigating narrow city streets in such a blocky, large vehicle proved to be a headache and a half, but they eventually made their way to the bar Ryan now managed—an upscale speakeasy that was lightyears away from the shabby little dive he'd bussed for back in the day. The hard part, it seemed, was finding the entrance. They spent nearly ten minutes combing over ever square inch of the address Ryan provided, and in the end, it was Calla who found the obscure door, nestled between an old dentist's and a coffee shop. 

As soon as they stepped through the door, a cheer went up. "About time!" Ryan hollered from a pool table in the back. Cooper clapped Vincent on the shoulder—it helps if you pretend you're someone else—and watched him force a grin in response.

The space reminded Cooper of a shoebox: long and narrow and dark, with a low, gleaming bar to their left and the lounge in the back. A glittering chandelier hung over their heads, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the floor, their faces, the bottles behind the bar. Everything.

Familiar faces crowded the speakeasy. More than Cooper had been expecting. Ryan and Gareth and a guy from yearbook whose name Cooper could never remember, who'd graduated two years before they did. And there was Hayley Singleton, of all people, who'd often eyed him the way she would eye an unwelcome bug, chatting it up with Ali Marks, the sheriff's niece. 

Ali Lowry, Cooper corrected himself. She'd married Steven Lowry last spring. Cooper spotted him in the back with the others, including Trevor Miles, whose hairline had thinned considerably. 

The twins had also made an appearance, though they were no longer identical. There was Mike over by the pool table; Cooper recognized his booming laugh immediately, though he was taller than he'd been in highschool, and his braids were longer, too, gathered back with a rubber band. Blake lingered at the bar, as scrawny as he'd ever been, hair shorn close to his scalp and a pair of blue-rimmed glasses hanging precariously on the edge of his nose.

"I've got next game," Vincent called, making his way back to the pool table.

Calla eyed the other girls with distaste. "This is going to be so fun," she said, feigning enthusiasm.

"Pretend you're someone else," he said helpfully.

"Darling." She patted his cheek. "I wrote that book." 

Bemused, he watch her head on over to the other end of the bar and insert herself seamlessly into Ali and Hayley's conversation, the other two squealing in greeting—as if they'd actually known each other on any real level back in highschool, when in fact, Ali had been too old to be close to either of them and Hayley had openly hated Calla's guts. 

Girls. Cooper just shook his head and joined Blake over at the bar. "Hey, man." They shook hands. "Long time."

"Not long enough," Blake joked, though Cooper knew he was only half-kidding by the way he snuck a quick, nervous glance in Calla's direction. "You and Calla..."

"Damn. Word does get around." Cooper shrugged at Blake's dubious look. "I don't really have a good explanation, to be honest."

Blake cleared the surprise from his face. "I guess you don't need one, either. Not for me, anyway." He clapped Cooper on the shoulder. "It really is good to see you, brother. Wasn't sure you'd make it here in one piece."

Cooper caught the bartender's eye and gestured for a beer. From a place like this, he probably could have ordered an overly complicated martini, but why bother. "Why's that?"

Blake looked as though he regretted opening his mouth. "Oh, y'know. Calla had me hunt down some...interesting documents for her not too long ago." He busied himself with reading the labels of the bottles displayed behind the bar. "Thought you two might be getting back into some shit."

Cooper mentally berated himself. Of course the guy was curious. Of course he'd have questions. Calla had recruited his services in lifting some seriously questionable files—in exchange for what she described as an undisclosed favor.

I don't know what sweet Blake has gotten himself into lately, she'd told Cooper not all that long ago, but the idea of me being in his debt seemed to intrigue him way more than it should have.

Cooper wondered when—not if—Blake would call in that favor. If it was the sort of trouble only Calla Parker could get someone out of, well...

Cooper wasn't sure he wanted any part of that.

Still. He knew when he was being managed, and this was most definitely Blake's attempt at wheedling more information out of him. "Nah. Just messing around," Cooper assured him, on guard for any sort of trickery.

Blake snorted. "Yeah. Figured that'd be your answer." Cooper tried to apologize, but Blake just waved him off with his beer. "Don't mind my bitching. I'm just the can you delete that footage and retrieve that file for us guy. I don't think my pay grade's high enough to know about whatever the fuck you two are into these days."

Right. Cooper had almost forgotten about the other favor Blake had done for them—cracking the station's security system to wipe away the evidence that proved he and Calla had stolen a case file from the sheriff's office. Maybe the guy was trying to finesse his way into more information, but he'd saved their asses more than once.

Cooper couldn't exactly blame him for his curiosity.

Somewhat embarrassed, he said, "Thanks for that, by the way." At Blake's questioning look, he added, "The police station thing. Calla told me how you went in and, ah...did us a solid."

"Sure." Blake took a swig of his beer. "The whole thing was a little confusing, to be honest. I mean, I get why you needed that video wiped," he said with a meaningful look in Cooper's direction. "But the rest of the footage..."

Cooper blanked. "The rest?"

"She didn't tell you," Blake said. Not a question. "Interesting."

Cooper stared down at his beer. The rest of the footage. "Do you by chance remember what she wanted wiped?"

"No." Blake downed the rest of his beer. Twirled the empty bottle between his fingers. 

Nervous.

Cooper swigged his beer, skeptical. "That wasn't real convincing."

"Fine." Blake shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. "Between you and me, I kept copies of everything. Y'know. Just in case." Once more, he looked over at where Calla stood with the other girls, who'd joined the rest of the crowd over by the pool table. "I'm not too proud to admit it. Your girlfriend freaks me out. Gotta keep a little insurance on hand for me and my bro."

Cooper could understand that. "Your secret's safe with me." As long as our secret's safe with you. Not that he needed to reiterate the point. "Would you be able to send me the copies you kept? I'd like to take a look at them."

The bartender set another round of beers on the counter. Both boys nodded in thanks. "I like you, Coop." Blake tossed his empty bottle into the garbage bin behind the bar. "But why the hell would I do that? I start sending shit like that out into the world, and it's bound to leave a trail. Better not to risk it." He smiled, glasses flashing in the low light as he tilted his head. "'Sides. I don't do favors for free. Not anymore."

"Understandable." Cooper tossed his bottle into the same bin. "Consider this particular favor my payout for wiping the floor with your ass in fantasy football last weekend. And we'll call it even."

Blake's smug demeanor vanished. He dragged a hand down his face with a low curse. "Fine," he muttered, and then held up a finger when Cooper opened his mouth to say more. "No more thanks. And no more favors." Another quick look at Calla. "For either of you. I thought I wanted to know more, but honestly, whatever this shit is...I want no part in it."

Cooper followed his line of sight, watching Calla as she struck up an amiable conversation with a rather nervous-looking Ryan, who was scrubbing a bit of blue chalk against the head of his pool stick with more vigor than necessary. Cooper just managed to catch the tail end of their conversation.

"...lost one of our best waitresses last year," Ryan was saying, eyes flickering between his pool stick and Calla's politely concerned expression. "Crazy story, actually. One of the bouncers found her strangled to death in her car when she didn't show up for her shift."

"Damn. I'm sorry," Calla said, looking for all the world as if she really meant it.

She looked up then, and across the bar, their eyes met. Cooper couldn't help but think of the bruises on Tracy Smith's neck when he'd found her on Halloween night.

He looked back at Blake. "Honestly, man," he said at last, clapping the other boy on the shoulder. "I don't blame you at all."