Cooper pulled at the collar of his EMT uniform. "I still can't believe I agreed to this."

"Neither can I," Calla admitted, readjusting the black horns buried in her hair. Cooper had to choke back another maniacal laugh at the sight of them.

Calla Parker had disguised herself as the devil. Literally.

The red and black costume was as ridiculously minuscule as every other outfit he'd seen so far in line to the club's front entrance, still thirty feet or so further down the block, despite how long they'd been waiting. He shivered in the cool air and kept his eyes resolutely fixed on her face as he asked, "What's the plan? You haven't told me much about...whatever it is we're here to do."

"We're here," she said, each word measured, "to fill in the gaps."

"Oh, excellent. That clarifies things."

She pinched his arm before he could pull away. "I have a hunch. Let's leave it at that." She then shot him her signature keep your fat mouth shut look. "If anyone asks, all you need to know is that I'm here to find my...friend."

"Right." He glanced over his shoulder, attempting to veil his unease. The line stretched around the corner of the building. "That should be easy."

"As always, you are a ray of positivity."

"I'm just saying." He fussed with the hem of his polyester jacket. "This thing is itchy." He gave her outfit a cursory glance. "I don't see how we're supposed to be matching right now."

"That's because we're not matching." She plucked absently at a loose string dangling from the hem of her pleather skirt. "I despise couple's costumes."

Of course she did. "I'll add that to the list," he grumbled. Right under frilly pink cakes and domestic house cats.

She peered at him, curious. "What?"

"Nothing." He fought back a smile. "So. My job tonight is to stand around and look pretty? If that's the case, maybe you should've just invited Peter along—"

"Oh, shut up." He thought she might have been suppressing a smile of her own. "Your job tonight is to keep an eye on Astrid."

"Alright. Keep an eye on Astrid...and look pretty. I can multitask, you know."

She snorted and folded her arms to brace against a gust of wintery air. Cooper was suddenly very grateful for his jacket, itchiness aside. He shuffled closer to her, blocking the worst of the wind. "Just remember, you absolutely cannot let Astrid see you," Calla emphasized. "She already thinks she's being watched. And for good reason." They shuffled forward as the line began to move, Calla's heels cracking against the sidewalk with each step. "Just keep your head down and your eyes on the crowd. Maybe you'll see something interesting."

"Maybe," he agreed, failing to mask his skepticism. They were only twenty feet from the entrance now. Fifteen. Ten.

Calla pulled a fake ID out of her wallet. He'd almost forgotten, given everything else going on, that she hadn't yet turned twenty-one. "Whatever you do," she cautioned him, "stay out of my way."

Cooper was only too happy to oblige. If this thing went south, he didn't want to be anywhere near the blast radius.

He offered the bouncer his license and, after a beat of nervous silence—stop fidgeting, you're of age—he followed Calla inside, squeezing through the cramped entryway. He brushed against her as they waited for the bottleneck of partygoers to empty out onto a packed dance floor. Calla glanced at him, eyes glittering in the dark.

"This is fun," he offered lamely. A blast of music swept the words away. His fingers brushed the thin material of her shirt as they pushed forward, moving with the crowd. They were close to the dance floor now. And then, he knew, he'd lose her. "Wait." Her hair slid over her shoulder, tickling his nose, as she twisted to face him. "Be careful."

Her lips quirked. You be careful, she mouthed, before slipping gracefully into the crowd.

Cooper watched her go, torn between exasperation and fear—fear not for her, but for the poor sap who'd soon be dead in a ditch somewhere, once she'd gotten the information she needed to make him disappear. What had the fool done, Cooper wondered, to earn such a fate?

Warm bodies shepherded him further into the bar. How Calla had managed to find a path through this—

The music shifted then, and the crowd surged forward, roaring in approval. Cooper had no choice but to move with it, feigning a smile as a girl in a blue wig started dancing against him.

She's cute, Vincent would've said. Go for it.

"'S'cuse me," Cooper muttered, sliding sideways through the crowd, and soon enough he'd lost sight of the girl in the blue wig. The Vincent in his head groaned. You're a lost cause, man.

Maybe the Vincent in his head had a point.

Cooper fought his way to the edge of the crowd, his sights set on an iron staircase that wound up to a cramped balcony overlooking the ground floor. At the top, he braced himself against the rail to catch his breath, scanning the clash of costumes writhing below.

Calla had not been the only girl to dress as the devil. Flashes of red danced in his periphery. Pitchforks and horns and painted lips curved in cherry-red smiles. But Calla was nowhere to be seen. Wherever she'd gone, she was flying well under his radar.

And that's fine by me, he thought, rather unconvincingly. He knew Calla could take care of herself, but he couldn't quite stifle the steady bead of anxiety that had burrowed its way through to the center of his chest, where it roosted and festered and ate away at logic and sense. What if Calla, with her single-minded intensity, forgot to mind her drink and some douchebag slipped a pill into her tequila soda? Or what if the blackmailer had lured her here on false pretenses, and had only needed Cooper out of the picture long enough to steal her away?

Those scenarios, unlikely as they were, continued to unravel inside his head as he swept the room, looking for a distraction—anything to catch and hold his attention long enough to banish the unwieldy thoughts that plagued him now. He tightened his hold on the iron rail and craned his neck to get a better view of the group of girls dancing directly below his feet when he saw her.

Not Calla. Astrid.

She looked much as she always had, though her braids were shorter than Cooper remembered, and now there was a golden halo bobbing above her head, a pair of miniature wings sprouting from her bare back. Cooper barked a quick, harsh laugh at the irony of her costume.

An angel. She's dressed as a fucking angel. He waved down one of the bartenders working the crowd on the balcony, suddenly in need of a drink. For all Calla's talk about couple's costumes, she sure outdid herself this time.

As he watched, Astrid wrapped her arms around the waist of a pretty blonde girl in an orange jumpsuit. Their noses brushed as Astrid leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Flustered—he was clearly intruding on a private moment—Cooper ordered himself a beer.

If Calla were here, he knew what she would say. Stop fucking around and do what I told you to. Ordinarily, such a simple task wouldn't be a problem. But keep an eye on Astrid had somehow turned into watch Astrid dance and kiss and flirt with her girlfriend, which made Cooper look like a total creep.

He busied himself with his beer and attempted to watch the girls from afar, assuming an air of disinterest in his surroundings—a trick he'd learned from Calla. Below his feet, both Astrid and the girl in the orange jumpsuit had the heavy-lidded, giddy-grin look he usually associated with one too many shots of tequila, and when their lips brushed, Cooper flushed and looked at his phone, the ceiling—anything that would make him feel like less of an interloper. 

But it was no use. Resigned to at least one more miserable hour on watch duty, he glanced once more down at the girls; Astrid's fluffy wings and the blonde's orange jumpsuit made them incredibly easy to spot, for which he was thankful. As he watched, Orange Jumpsuit tossed back her shaggy tangle of blonde hair and closed her eyes, swaying to the rhythmic lull of the music.

He watched her for another moment, forgetting for a moment—just a moment—that he was a stranger on a balcony watching other strangers dance below. And so he didn't immediately react, not as he should have, when Orange Jumpsuit opened her eyes, her gaze wandering to the crowded balcony above. 

Their eyes met and held.

Momentarily caught off guard, he could only stare as her smile slipped. Almost as if she recognized him...

Oh, no.

She whispered something in Astrid's ear, her eyes never leaving his face. Startled into action—do not let her see you—Cooper shoved away from the rail. He needed to lose himself in the crowd, and quick. He wouldn't put it past Astrid to come upstairs and investigate who'd been watching them from the balcony, especially if she thought he was following her—

In his haste, he accidentally shoulder-checked someone on the way to the bar. "Shit—sorry, man," he said automatically. He shot the stranger an apologetic glance. "Wait. Professor Li?"

It certainly looked like his anthropology professor, at least from this angle, with half a mask covering his face. Whoever it was, they didn't linger to accept his apology. Cooper watched him go, bewildered.

And then—angel wings, cresting the top of the stairs. Shit. Cooper whirled around and tapped the shoulder of the girl nearest him, smiling awkwardly. She returned his smile, her lips shimmering with the high shine of lipgloss. "Hey. Sorry to bother you—"

Without waiting for him to say more, she pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

Cooper stiffened in surprise and pulled away. "Oh. I, uh—"

"There you are."

Cooper spun around, relieved. "Calla." His cheeks felt unnecessarily warm. "Hi."

Her eyes ran the length of him. "Hungry?"

He nodded quickly, feeling like a fool. "Astrid—"

"I know." She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd, away from the staircase where he'd last spotted Astrid. The girl who'd kissed him had disappeared in the confusion, no doubt off to charm another sucker.

Cooper leaned down to mutter, "Thanks for saving me back there."

Calla said nothing. He trailed her in silence, ears burning.

How did that turn into such a clusterfuck so quickly?

Cooper figured that Calla must have (somehow) memorized the bar's layout, because she navigated the crowd with quick, sure steps, until they'd descended a set of stairs that deposited them directly on the street outside, the oppressive heat and the music a distant thrum at their backs. Cooper let out a long, relieved breath. "That was a lot," he mumbled.

"Yes. You looked like you were having a rotten time," she said in a clipped, measured tone.

Flustered, he pointed out the soft yellow glow of a diner just ahead. "Burger joint," he blurted, desperate to change the subject.

Calla gazed at him a moment longer. "You've got pink lipgloss on your cheek." And then she turned, nose in the air, and marched over to the diner.

Mortified, Cooper swiped the back of his arm across his face, smearing a streak of lipgloss against the cheap material of his jacket. He continued to rub at his cheek as he trotted after Calla's quickly retreating form, muttering a string of low curses as he went.

Just ahead of him, Calla threw open the diner's dingy front door, its glass streaked with a number of handprints. Cooper slipped in after her, cheeks stinging—which he blamed on the cold.

"So..." Cooper let the word drag across his tongue as they lingered in the entryway, crowding the hostess stand. The diner was surprisingly packed, bustling with activity. Cooper narrowly avoided knocking shoulders with a busboy as he slipped around him, navigating the restaurant's narrow walkways with familiar ease.

Calla stood with her arms folded, the plastic horns in her hair askew. Cooper was debating if he should reach out and straighten them when she said, "My hunch was right."

He stared at her, mystified. "It was?"

She nodded and then fell silent as the hostess returned and led them to a booth in the far corner of the diner. Cooper slid across the torn fabric of his seat with a grimace, but he didn't dare speak again until they were alone. "What—"

"Not so loud," she warned him in low tones. She folded her hands on the table, seemingly content to sit in silence for the remainder of their meal.

He grabbed one of the menus between them. "We can talk about it later."

"Gerald Michaels is behind the blackmail."

Cooper slowly put down his menu. "Or we can talk about it right now." He braced his elbows against the table. "Run that by me one more time."

Calla plucked a napkin from the dispenser by her elbow and began to tear at the edges. "I came here tonight to meet with the man I'm supposed to..." She glanced at him. "You know." Cooper nodded in grim understanding. "I wouldn't normally introduce myself to a target like that. It's risky, for a number of reasons. But I needed to confirm a suspicion I had."

"Your hunch?" Cooper asked quietly.

Her chin jerked in a curt nod. "Anyway, me and this guy...let's call him Number Six. Well, me and Number Six, we got to talking. He offered to buy me a drink. I accepted, of course. And then he told me about himself. Details about his work, his colleagues, his students." She set aside the scraps of her napkin with an impatient flick of her fingers. "I already knew most of what he had to say going into the conversation. Including the name of his hometown."

"Let me guess." Cooper held up a hand. His appetite had evaporated. "Small town. Middle of nowhere. Home to an obscene number of murderous sociopaths."

"Greenwitch," she confirmed, a dangerous light in her eyes. "Born and raised."

"Funny coincidence, that." Cooper opened his mouth to say more, but quickly closed his mouth when their waiter arrived, looking none too excited about their arrival.

"Welcome to Checkers," he deadpanned. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Two Cokes," Calla said immediately. He tucked away his notepad with a sigh and slouched off. Calla immediately picked up the threads of their conversation. "I don't think it's a coincidence at all, actually."

Cooper sorted through all he'd learned over the last few days. "If this person..." He hesitated. "If Michaels is choosing his targets based on some sort of personal vendetta, then—"

"Then the odds are good that the detective knows this guy. Or at least, he knew him, back in the day." Calla leaned forward. "I did my research. Number Six has a clean record. A little too clean. After he graduated from highschool, he enrolled at a community college. Barely made it three months before he dropped out. No mention as to why. I couldn't find anything else on him until I found a faculty directory online with his bio. Apparently, he transferred to a four-year university across the country, earned his doctorate, and came back to the east coast to live what seems to be a quiet little life."

"Your drinks." Cooper nearly jumped out his skin when a red glass appeared under his nose. Their waiter glanced between them, bored. "Anything to eat?"

Calla spoke before he could even begin to process the question. "Two cheeseburgers. Fries on the side. No pickles."

Once the waiter was out of earshot, Cooper hissed, "I like pickles."

"That's tough." Calla took a sip of her water, thoughtful as she assessed him. "What are you thinking?"

"That I really wanted those damn pickles." When she didn't respond, he sighed. "That I have no idea what any of this means."

She didn't speak until she'd sucked down half her water. "I couldn't figure out why this guy had dropped out of college. He was popular in highschool. Honors student. Baseball player. Voted most likely to succeed in senior superlatives—"

"That's not saying much," Cooper interrupted. "Steph was voted most likely to succeed. Look how that turned out."

"Cooper!" Calla slapped her palms against the table. "Focus. I beg you." She blew out a long breath. "The point being, I had a hunch going into this conversation that Number Six had a less than savory reason for fleeing across the country mid-semester."

Cooper gestured for her to continue.

"He got real skittish when I told him I grew up in Greenwitch. Said the town brought up a lot of bad memories for him." At this, she smiled. "Relatable. I told him about some of what we went through, to try and get him to open up. That, and I wanted to name-drop the twins and the others, to see if their names elicited any sort of reaction."

Cooper leaned forward, suddenly invested. "He knew Michaels. Didn't he?"

"He did. He wouldn't say how. He ended the conversation pretty quickly after Michaels came up."

"Okay." Cooper dragged a hand through his hair. "That still doesn't give us much to go on."

"I know." Calla paused, eyes tracking something over his shoulder. Seconds later, their waiter returned, balancing a plate in each hand. He dropped off their food without a word.

Calla tore into her burger immediately. Cooper watched on, mildly impressed. "You've got a plan," he said. Not a question.

She nodded.

"A plan that involves confirming the detective's involvement in the blackmail," he pressed.

Another nod. Cooper waited for her to say more. When she didn't, he sighed and picked up his burger. His stomach growled appreciatively as he took the first bite, his appetite roaring back to life.

They ate in silence, Calla methodically working her way across her plate. She'd just started on the fries when she said, "I called Blake."

Cooper nearly choked on his next bite. He dropped his burger and pounded his chest, coughing. "What?" he croaked. "Why?"

Calla popped a fry into her mouth. "To ask if he could pull every case the detective has ever worked on."

He stared at her. "And he agreed to that."

"Not initially, no."

Cooper buried his face in his hands. "Isn't Blake a suspect in all of this? What if he's the one blackmailing you?"

"He could be," Calla said, contemplative. "But I doubt it."

"Do explain."

"Think about it. Whoever's blackmailing me is doing it to force me to kill a very select group of people. You said it yourself. Does Blake really seem the type to do something like that?"

"No, but—"

"And really," she added, "if you look at the facts, you can really only make the argument that Blake might have a connection to two, maybe three of the targets. The others? No connection. None."

Cooper made a face. "But the detective...he's worked his whole life to put the bad guys behind bars. It doesn't make sense."

"It might," Calla murmured, shoving her plate aside. "We just need more information."

"And Blake is going to get us that information." Cooper couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice.

A smile touched her lips. "Yes. I think he will."

"Why?"

"I told him you needed his help." She waved away his look of horror. "You wouldn't shut up about that fantasy league before. I figured he might not give a shit about me, but you? He might help you."

"No," Cooper said, mortified. "I mean, we're friendly and all. But he wouldn't break...however many laws, not to help me out. And definitely not with something like that."

Calla's smile grew wider. "That's what he said. I figured the Cooper card was worth a shot. But he didn't seem convinced. So I offered him something else."

Cooper glanced down at his half-eaten burger, feeling suddenly nauseous. "Do I want to know?"

"Relax." She raised a hand to flag down their waiter. "I told him he could consider this a favor. An I owe you, so to speak."

"You—" He stopped himself just in time for their waiter to place the check on the table. Cooper snatched it before she could. "What does that even mean?" he asked once they were alone again.

Calla rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. "It means he can call in an undisclosed favor from me anytime he wants. I had to remind him that I am a very valuable person to be in good graces with." Her smile darkened. "I don't know what sweet Blake has gotten himself into lately, but the idea of me being in his debt seemed to intrigue him way more than it should have."

"Christ." Cooper slid out of the booth. "You're incorrigible."

"I'm a businesswoman," she corrected, following his lead. "I know how to get what I want."

Her words settled between them, lingering like a bad omen as Cooper paid for the food at the front register, his thoughts troubled. Neither he nor Calla spoke again until they were outside—Calla gazing at the indistinct shape of the stars hanging above their heads, and he watching her just as intently.

Before he could lose his nerve, Cooper grabbed her arm and pulled her into the building's shadow, beyond the flow of foot traffic. "You said you know how to get what you want. What do you want, Calla?"

When she looked at him, her eyes were alight with a dark fury he knew well. "I want to be free of this. I want—" The muscles in her jaw worked as she bit back whatever else she might have said.

"I wish you'd be honest with me," he said softly.

"Sometimes I don't even know how to be honest with myself." The words surprised seemed to surprise her. She looked away from him, eyes darting across the street. "What is it you want, Cooper?"

"Deflection. Nice," he muttered. At that, she smiled. Their eyes met. "I really don't know," he told her.

She searched his face before stepping back onto the sidewalk. He followed her on instinct. "I think I know what you want," she said.

He ghosted her steps. "Oh?"

"I think you want to go back to the bar so you can find that pretty girl you kissed."

Cooper tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. "I—I do not. And she kissed me, thank you very much. Blondes aren't really my thing." Not since Venus, anyway, he didn't add.

Calla laughed at that, shattering the tension between them. "What is your thing, then?"

"I don't know," he said, agitated. "Stop pestering me about it."

"You're so easy to rile up."

Cooper rolled his eyes but didn't take the bait, and so they trekked three blocks in amicable silence, searching for Vincent's massive truck among endless rows of compact, eco-friendly cars. Cooper might have wandered those streets for the better part of the night trying to locate his old Mustang, but the truck's sheer size made it incredibly easy to spot, even at a distance, and soon they were climbing into the cabin. Once he was off his feet, Cooper loosed a sigh of such immense relief, he almost laughed.

He'd just jammed the keys in the ignition when an errant thought gave him pause. His relief quickly subsided. "Calla?"

She slid her seatbelt into place. "Hmm?"

He told me about himself. Her words from before took on new meaning for him now. Details about his work, his colleagues, his students.

"Number Six," he said slowly. "You never told me his name. Or what he does for a living."

"He's a professor." She gazed at him with that inscrutable expression he knew meant trouble, and was silent for so long, he began to wonder if she would deign to answer him. She turned away, pinning her eyes to some distant point on the horizon. "One of your professors, actually. His name is—"

"Professor Li," Cooper answered for her, a sense of impending doom falling over him. "Your next target is my anthropology professor."