A knock on the door made both Cooper and Vincent look up from their respective spots on the couch.

The two had been lounging around Cooper's apartment all day, soaking up the full potential of a lazy Wednesday afternoon. No school meant no responsibilities, and they'd taken full advantage of that fact, binge-watching Star Wars and devouring every snack Cooper's mom had in the kitchen. Bags of chips, an empty Oreo pack, and a half-eaten can of Pringles littered the coffee table, a testament to their epic day spent feasting.

Vincent had ignored not one, not two, but five calls from Astrid, insisting that he needed a day without her drama. Cooper approved. He only wished that his problems were half as simple as a scandalous affair.

He had an Oreo in hand when the knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. Vincent must have been likewise occupied, because he nearly jumped out of his skin, knocking over the Pringles with his foot in the process.

"Crap." Vincent moved to clean the mess, shoving a couple of chips in his mouth while he was at it.

"Hold on," Cooper called, forcing himself to stand. He had no idea who could possibly be here at 4:00 in the afternoon, but he sincerely hoped it wasn't Calla. He'd told her Vincent was coming over so she could keep her distance, but she was unpredictable. She did what she liked, when she liked.

It was infuriating.

Cooper yawned as he answered the door, but it quickly died in his mouth when he saw the two officers in front of him.

"Oh. Um." Cooper raised a hand in a half-wave. "Hi."

"Cooper Daniels?" the stouter of the two cops asked. Cooper recognized him as Jeremy Hand. He lived at the apartment complex on the opposite side of town, nearest the river.

He knew exactly who Cooper was, so why the hell was he asking?

Cooper raised an eyebrow. "Uh...yeah?"

Officer Hand cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Hey, Coop. Sorry for the formalities. We just need you to come down to the station, if that's alright. Amelia here?"

Cooper blinked stupidly. "No. She's at work."

"Sheriff will give her a call." The taller of the two—Deputy Pendowski, who lived three doors down from Cooper—gestured for him to step outside. Seeing him brought back unpleasant memories. "If you would come with us."

Cooper looked down at his bare feet. He tried to ignore the pit of nerves gathering in his stomach. "Um. Can I put on some shoes?"

They both glanced down at his feet and then looked at each other. Officer Hand said gruffly, "Go ahead, kid. And a jacket, too. Could catch your death out here in this cold."

Cooper nodded and shuffled to his room. Vincent was sitting upright now, watching him with wide eyes. "Coop? What's going on?"

Deputy Pendowski answered for him, sounding surprised. "Townson! How are you, kid? Great game against the Yellow Jackets. I tell you what—"

Cooper shoved on his tennis shoes and threw on a hoodie, numb. All he could think was that he was about to be thrown in a jail cell again, and he had absolutely no idea why. He ran a hand through his hair—he really needed a haircut—and tucked it into a ball cap. He didn't bother putting on sweatpants. His gym shorts would be fine.

He needed the cold air against his legs. Something to wake him up from the shock he was in now.

Vincent stood when Cooper came out of his room, eyes filled with worry. "Want me to call your mom?"

"Yeah. Please." Cooper followed the cops outside. He looked back at Vincent, unable to conceal his fear. "Tell her to come soon?"

"Will do, man." Vincent stood in the doorway, watching as his friend crawled into the back of a police cruiser. They didn't bother turning on the lights or the siren, for which Cooper was grateful.

No need to make this more miserable than it already was.

"Sorry 'bout this, kid," Deputy Pendowski said from the passenger seat, glancing back at Cooper in the rearview mirror. He rubbed his short mustache and chuckled sheepishly. "It's really just a formality, I swear. Got some questions that need answering."

"This isn't my first rodeo," Cooper muttered, which made Officer Hand laugh.

The ride to the station was short. Once they pulled into a space they helped Cooper out of the backseat and guided him to the front door, walking on either side of him. No matter what they said about formalities and questions, he felt an awful lot like a suspect.

The station was small and grey, and not quite as Cooper remembered from the night of the Halloween party. It was less crowded, for one. The front desk, situated directly in front of the entrance, was unmanned. A dying plant sat in the corner, practically begging for water.

Deputy Pendowski led Cooper past the front desk to the bullpen. An array of desks dominated the space, each covered with files and paperwork. Deputy Pendowski pulled up a chair for Cooper and offered him a glass of water, which he gladly took—and then instantly regretted, the urge to pee overwhelming.

Windows lined the wall to his right, though the dingy blinds were shuttered to block out the afternoon sun; light still managed to slant through, casting a glow on the linoleum floor. Two private offices—their doors closed and blinds drawn—sat toward the back of the building. One of the officers meandered over to rap on the left door.

Cooper looked away, not wanting to come off as overly suspicious. His eyes automatically wandered to the hallway on his left. He knew it well. He wondered if he would be taken back there again—back to that cell.

"Daniels?"

Cooper turned around, swiveling in his chair. He was surprised to see Ryan Kane sitting at the desk behind his, half-hidden behind a large desktop computer and a stack of files, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt. Ryan pushed his chair away from the desk, clutching an empty cup of water.

This feels familiar. Same suspects. Different murder.

"Ryan? Hey." Cooper adjusted his ball cap, fighting the urge to rip it off and run a hand through his hair. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess." Ryan shrugged, lifting the cup to his lips before realizing it was empty. He set it down on the desk and sighed, running a hand over his head. He'd buzzed off his thick black hair last year, devastating half of the female population at Greenwitch High.

He was one of those guys who had hit puberty in middle school—tall, built, the kind of kid who could pass for eighteen and frequently took advantage of that fact, sneaking cigarettes and tobacco at the gas station.

Meanwhile, Cooper felt like he'd be stuck in this awkward, gangly body for the rest of his life. If he buzzed his head, he'd look like a creep.

That was the last thing he needed in this town.

Cooper's phone vibrated. He quickly fished it out of his pocket. It had to be his mom—

"Sorry, Coop." Deputy Pendowski approached, a plastic bag in hand and a latex glove on the other. "I'm gonna need to see that phone."

Cooper hesitated, phone half-extended to the deputy, who smiled apologetically.

"We got a warrant for that. Gotta check everyone's phone who was with Rachel the night she died. You understand, right Coop?"

Cooper sighed, still apprehensive, but surrendered his phone anyway. "Okay."

Deputy Pendowski smiled, his mustache twitching, and lumbered down the hallway, disappearing around the corner. Officer Hand sat behind the front desk, leaning on his elbows. Another man Cooper didn't recognize—somewhere in his mid-forties—sat behind the desk across from his, wearing a suit instead of a uniform, a coat thrown over the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A detective's badge was hooked on his belt, gleaming dully in a bar of afternoon sunlight.

"Hey." Ryan tapped his feet against the floor, anxious. "Any idea what's going on?"

"Nope." Cooper shrugged, heart hammering in his chest. "Kinda wanted to avoid this place for the rest of my life, y'know?"

Ryan grimaced and nodded. "We've really got to stop meeting like this."

Cooper grinned, despite the circumstances. He liked Ryan. He had no reason to. The guy had been chummy with Jacob, and he hadn't exactly stood up for Cooper when Jacob had beaten him within an inch of his life. But there was something so...sincere about the guy. Like a dog that had been kicked too many times and had grown mean because of it—but was still good at his core.

Besides. Who was Cooper to judge? He was the one giving a psychopath free reign to track down and murder another killer. He didn't exactly have a moral high ground to stand on.

Then again, he thought, trying not to stare at Ryan's profile for too long, for fear that the other boy would begin to notice something suspicious in the way he watched him. It's my neck on the line. If there's a chance Ryan is the killer...

"Cooper Daniels?"

Cooper looked up to see a tired-looking man in his thirties standing beside his desk. He wore a grey suit and had the hair to match, a silver badge clipped to his belt. He held a bottle of water in one hand and a notepad and pen in the other.

Behind him, being led to the front desk by Deputy Pendowski, was Calla. She made eye contact with him as she went past, but the mask she wore—grief, tinged with confusion—never cracked.

What the hell is going on, Cooper thought, panicked. He tried not to let that panic show, tried to channel whatever inner reservoir of creepy calm that Calla tapped into so easily.

But he didn't have an inner reservoir of calm. He rubbed his palms nervously against his shorts, glancing back up at the man in the suit. "Yes?"

"If you'll come with me." He gestured for Cooper to follow him and, after a moment's hesitation, he did. Cooper sent Ryan a questioning look, but the other boy just shrugged, his feet still bouncing wildly on the floor.

A look over his shoulder told him that Calla had already disappeared. He would get no help from her. Whatever this was, he was going in completely unprepared.

"Sorry for all this," the man began, looking back at Cooper. He took a left at the end of the hall. Rather than proceeding straight back to the cells, he opened a door on the right. "I'm Detective Schuster, by the way."

"Hey," Cooper replied dully, slipping inside the small room. It was brightly lit, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision. A rectangular wooden table sat in the center of the room, occupying most of the space. One chair sat on the far side of the table, while two others were positioned closest to the door.

"Well. I suppose I should start with the good news." Detective Schuster gestured for Cooper to sit in the chair furthest from the door. Cooper did so warily, eyes trained on his reflection in the one-way glass.

An interrogation room? Why the hell was he being interrogated? What happened to formalities?

"Good news?" Cooper repeated quietly, tapping one foot against the floor. He really needed to pee.

The detective sat across from him. He smiled and spread his hands. "You didn't kill Rachel Smith."

Cooper nearly choked on his own spit. He coughed to hide his shock.

The detective took a swig from his water bottle and then sighed. "Anyway. That's the good news. The bad news? A girl is dead. And you were that girl's date to the dance."

Cooper flushed. "I..."

"I know, kid. She was a pretty girl. Nice. And let me be the first to say—you aren't in any kind of trouble. We really just need some help here." He scratched behind his ear with his pen. Up close, the detective looked even more exhausted, the circles under his eyes more pronounced. "Unfortunately, Greenwitch is a small town. Your school is...well, old. Outdated. The cameras that work have no line of sight. Or they're busted."

The last part was added as a low grumble. Cooper realized whoever this guy was, he wasn't from Greenwitch. Maybe he was from a neighboring county, or even Raleigh. An outside man working a small town gig that had suddenly turned into regional news.

"All we know," Detective Shuster continued, "is that no one left the school until 10:30. Rachel was still alive then, according to eye witnesses." He raised an eyebrow. "Can you confirm that?"

Cooper stared down at the table. Calla hadn't told him what to do if the police came asking questions. She'd probably want him to keep quiet. Lay low. Keep his mouth shut.

But that wasn't going to get him any answers.

Cooper placed his hands on the table and fidgeted with his fingers. "I wasn't keeping track of time," he admitted.

The detective nodded. "Understandable. But anything will help us, Coop. Do you remember checking your phone at all?"

Coop. The guy talked to him like he knew him.

Cooper contemplated the question. Remnants of that night—hazy memories of dancing and kissing behind the bleachers and cracking lame jokes—drifted through his mind.

"We were with a big group," he said slowly, furrowing his brow. He rattled off a few names, just for the sake of being thorough. "At some point I went back to our table. I wanted to check my phone. Rachel found me, said something about the bathroom. It was definitely past eleven. So I guess, yeah. She was still fine."

She was alive.

The detective nodded, clicking his pen and jotting down a note on his legal pad. He glanced back up at Cooper. "Is it safe to say that, while you were on your phone, Rachel was murdered?"

Cooper looked back down at the table, miserable. "Yes."

"And how long do you think you were there, waiting for Rachel to come back?"

He shrugged, rubbing his forehead. "I dunno. A long time. I remember wondering where she was."

"And?"

"And then Calla came over." He sighed. "Calla Parker. She's her best friend. Was her best friend."

"What did Calla want?"

"She was looking for Rachel. Stephanie came up to us at some point. She was looking for Jessica."

"Sneider?"

Cooper nodded.

The detective contemplated him for a second. He made no move to jot down the name, the pen hovering in the air.

After a minute or so had passed, the detective asked, "A few students told us you and Ms. Parker ran for the bathrooms. Why the hurry?"

Cooper shrugged, ignoring the rushing in his ears. He couldn't say anything about the note they'd found in Rachel's purse. That much he knew for certain. "I dunno. Neither of us had seen Rachel, and it was getting late, and just...I guess we had a bad feeling? We were both worried." He paused. "I'm the one who found Tracy. Kinda made me paranoid, I guess."

"I can imagine," the detective murmured. This time, he jotted down a note. And then he cleared his throat. "These questions are very important, Cooper. You see, without any cameras, all we have to go on is testimony. What people saw. What people didn't see. That's why we brought you in today. We're just trying to get a clearer picture of what happened."

Cooper nodded.

"Now," the detective continued, setting down his pen and leaning forward. "We have several witnesses who claim they saw you on your phone, right around the time you said Rachel left to use the bathroom. It was late. Kids were drinking." He smiled at Cooper's guilty face. "Yes, we're aware there was alcohol going around. Among other things. That can make it hard to pinpoint exactly what happened and when. But a chaperone for the event confirmed what you just told us. A miss..." he glanced down at his notes. "Esperanza, I believe. She distinctly remembers seeing you in the timeframe that we believe Rachel was killed."

Cooper could have sighed with relief, even despite the morbidity of the conversation. He wasn't exactly the most noticeable kid in school, so it brought him some comfort that he wasn't totally invisible. Perks of bringing one of the most popular girls in school to the dance, he supposed.

Detective Schuster continued. "But there are some holes. Stories that don't match up. Witnesses with conflicting testimony. You see, we have a fairly solid idea of where most of your classmates were and when." He leaned back in his seat. "Most of your classmates. We just need...some clarification, you could say."

The door opened, and the man from before—the one with the sandy hair that had been sitting across from Cooper in the main area—came in. He smiled kindly down at him, and something about it sent a flicker of recognition through Cooper.

Michaels. This was Cory's father.

He handed Detective Schuster a folder with barely a word, pulling out the only empty chair left in the room. He sat with his hands clasped on the table, his eyes scrutinizing every movement Cooper made.

He'd never had to pee more in his entire life.

Detective Schuster set the file on the table and opened it. He carefully produced six pictures, lining them up in a row in front of Cooper, who stared at them in disbelief.

Six familiar faces stared back at him, pulled from this year's set of yearbook photos.

Detective Schuster tapped the corner of each photograph. He was looking at Cooper intently now, eyes never wavering from his face. "Do you recognize these six people?"

Cooper swallowed audibly, the sound like a gunshot in the silent room. "Yes."

Six bright, smiling faces. He knew those faces. He knew them well. Cooper had grown up with these people. As children they'd run around the playground together, seeing how far they could go, how high they could jump. And then—when he grew up and the social hierarchy was established, leaving him solidly on the outs—he'd watched them from afar, occasionally making awkward small talk at parties Vincent dragged him to.

No matter how distant, no matter how strained, these people were a part of him—were a part of his life. So he could think of no reason Detective Schuster would show him these pictures.

No reason except one.

Stories that don't match up, the detective had told him. Witnesses with conflicting testimony.

Cooper knew what that meant. Someone was lying. Someone was lying, and the authorities had figured it out. They didn't have the answer—but they were getting closer.

A girl is dead.

He stared at the pictures, their faces so familiar, and he didn't feel any fear. No. For once, Cooper was not afraid.

He was angry.

The detective hadn't said what those pictures meant. He didn't have to. Cooper knew from the moment they hit the table what it meant. What it really meant.

One of them was a killer.