Calla had no idea what she was doing.

Can I come over in like an hour? Really need to talk.

She contemplated Vincent's text from her favorite spot in bed, aggravation and curiosity warring within her. The leatherbound book lay in her lap, along with the knife she'd buried in her sock drawer and the spare key Patricia Smith had entrusted her with. Her fingers danced along the spine of the book as she swiped out of her texts and went into her recent calls, scrolling until she found Cooper's number. She held it up to her ear, her lips flattening into a sour line.

She traced the title of the tom—Grimm's Fairy Tales—as she waited. Cooper answered on the third ring. "What?"

"Rude."

"Goodbye."

Why is he so exhausting? Calla sighed, her very breath laced with annoyance. Her hand drifted away from the book, hovering over the knife. "Why is Vincent coming over to my place in an hour?"

Silence from the other end. And then: "Did he text you?"

"Yes, genius. And I can probably guess why."

Vincent thinks we're dating, he'd whispered to her last night, the two of them elbow-to-elbow in the theater, surrounded by people they hated.

Cooper groaned. "Look, I already tried telling him—"

"You're useless," she interrupted. "I have a date with Cory Michaels in—" she pulled the phone away from her face to read the time, "—four hours."

"What? Why?"

She gripped the knife, the bone-white handle cold and unforgiving. It felt unfamiliar in her hand. She wasn't sure why she thought it might feel different. "I need to squeeze more information out of him."

More silence. Then a sigh. "You think he knows anything?"

"I think he could find out if he really wanted to." Calla stared out of her open window, gazing across the field at Cooper's apartment complex. "I won't ask anything overly obvious. I'll pull some crap about how I need to move on from Rachel's death, blah-blah. I need closure, blah-blah—"

"Touching."

"—and see what he can tell me," she continued without skipping a beat. "About the murder weapon, the suspects, anything." The murder weapon that isn't currently in my hand, that is. "It's a long shot, but we have to cover all our bases, don't we?"

"I guess," Cooper admitted. "But, y'know..."

"Yes," she said irritably. "I know. Vincent."

"Please, Calla?" he practically begged on the other end of the line. She heard shuffling, as if he were sitting up in bed. "Just make things right, okay?"

"Why do I have to clean up your mess?" she snapped, frowning. What the hell did that even mean, make things right? As far as she was concerned, Cooper had landed them both in this mess. Why did he have to be so...socially inept?

"We can't let him fly off the handle right now," he tried to reason. "We need—"

"We don't need shit. You just want your friend back."

Her knuckles had gone white from clenching the knife. She eased her grip.

"Tell me you don't like him even a little, and I'll drop it." Cooper sounded smug. "Go ahead. Tell me."

Calla kept quiet, her eyes hooded with thought. She pursed her lips.

"Super. Good luck!" he said quickly, and the line went dead.

"You little bitch," she whispered, ripping the phone away from her ear.

Wasn't Vincent his friend? He should have been the one repairing their strained friendship, not her. And what did she care if Vincent hated them both?

Tell me you don't like him even a little...

But she knew it was more complicated than who she did or didn't like—if that was even what this was. If she kept ignoring Vincent, he would find other avenues to pursue, if only to make her jealous. And there was too good a chance that one of those avenues would lead somewhere dangerous. As capable as Vincent may have been, Calla didn't fancy serving him up on a silver platter for Astrid—or Gareth, or Jessica, or any of them—to devour.

Then again...Calla could let him wander into the lion's den. It would keep her path to Cory clear, and erase a potential distraction in her life. But was a clear head worth risking Vincent's life? Calla wasn't sure. Her skewed moral compass—if she had one at all—certainly wasn't pointing her in the right direction.

Her eyes drifted back down to the knife.

Book. Knife. Key. Now all I need is a crystal ball.

She tried to tell herself it was only logical to want Vincent safe, and to repair any damages his friendship with Cooper may have suffered. After all, if anything happened to him, there was no telling how Cooper would react. Would grief pull him further into her sinful promise of revenge?

Maybe. Or maybe it would be the reality check he needed to push him far, far away from her—and into the arms of the Greenwitch County Sheriff's Department.

Calla wasn't willing to take that risk. Which meant Vincent's safety wasn't just Cooper's problem anymore; it was hers, too.

She sighed and opened her messages. She typed back a quick response to Vincent: Sure.

He read her message but didn't respond—which probably meant he was already on his way. Fantastic.

Grumbling, Calla slid off the bed and grabbed the random assortment of items she'd laid out, cramming the knife back into the sock drawer for lack of a better plan. She tucked the book in the pocket of a heavy winter coat—an excellent hiding place, all things considered, though she hated the give the killer even that aquesience—and, for the sake of her sanity, she triple checked the key's nondescript location in her nightstand. She would not lose the key a second time.

The thought that the killer might have been here, in her room, rifling through her drawers, sent a pulse of anger through her veins. But she knew the thought was ludicrous. The killer had gotten their hands on the key in some other form or fashion. Calla had been careless, leaving such a small, precious thing in her back pocket. And when it wasn't in her pocket, it was in her purse, tucked not-so-safely away in her locker.

She knew well how easily the killer could access a locker. They'd done it before. Twice.

Incriminating evidence thus hidden, Calla slunk into the bathroom, snatching up her toothbrush. She ran through the motions of basic hygiene as quickly as she could, but before she could even consider changing, the doorbell rang.

Calla darted out of the bathroom, hurrying down the hall to answer the door.

"I got it, Mom!" she called, hoping she wouldn't move from her spot in the living room. She doubted she would—her favorite Tom Cruise movie was playing, and it had barely begun.

Sucking in a deep breath to prepare herself, Calla opened the door and leaned against the frame. Vincent stood on her front porch, a sheepish look on his face and a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, which still had the remnants of bruising beneath them. He looked like he'd just come back from the locker room, his athletic bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in only shorts and a tank top that left approximately nothing to the imagination. He didn't seem fazed by the cold at all.

"Hey," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "Mind if I...?"

"Sure." Calla stepped aside to let him in, glancing into the kitchen. "Mom? Mind if I bring company to my room?"

"Sure, sweetheart," her mother called from the living room, her voice drifting from around the kitchen corner. She sounded completely distracted, the TV volume on blast.

She probably thinks it's Cooper, Calla thought, shutting the door behind Vincent.

Vincent followed her down the hall to her room. For all his bulk, he barely made a sound, moving with a surprising level of grace. She put a finger to her lips to emphasize the need for stealth as they escaped to her room. And then she locked the door, bracing her back against it.

"So," she murmured, taking care to keep her voice low. "You said you wanted to talk?"

He dropped his bag on the floor and took off his hat, rubbing his hand through damp hair. "Yeah."

He glanced around her room, trying and failing to be surreptitious about it. He did a quick spin, soaking in the empty walls. "Not big into decor, huh?"

She pointed to a corkboard over her shoulder, next to the bedroom door. It was the only ornamentation in the room. He leaned forward to examine the pictures pinned there—mostly a tribute to Rachel, including a polaroid of the two embracing the first day of freshman year.

He stepped away and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed he'd intruded on such a personal part of her life. "So..."

"So?" Calla sat on the edge of her bed. Dull afternoon light filtered in through her half-shuttered windows. She was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing her rattiest pair of sweatpants. "What's up?"

"Well...ah. This was a lot easier in my head," he mumbled, at a loss. He began pacing, his long legs taking him across her room in just a few steps. "Hold on."

"Take your time," she drawled, tilting her head to the side, a smile playing on her lips.

He wasn't as amused. He shot her a look and found his voice. "Are you and Cooper...?"

"No," she said simply, shrugging.

He stopped pacing and turned to face her, crossing his arms—which was far more distracting than she'd anticipated. "Oh?"

"Uh, yeah." Calla forced her eyes to stay up. "He's not my type. I'm flattered you're jealous, though."

"I—no one said I was jealous!"

She gave him a significant look. "Then why are you avoiding Cooper?"

He leaned back against her doorframe, flustered. Color had risen to his cheeks, and his dark eyes darted around the room. "I'm not."

"Vincent," Calla complained, deciding to tell the truth without giving away the whole game. "He won't stop badgering me about you! Just talk to him, okay? Cooper and I are not a thing."

"You two hang out all the time now," Vincent grumbled, bitter. "And you're both so...secretive about it. He doesn't tell me anything anymore—"

"We're friends now. Kind of," she explained, tilting her hand back and forth in an iffy gesture. "Remember that talk we had last semester?"

He was surprised at the sudden change in topic. "Yeah?"

His answer pleased her, which was odd. What should it matter if he remembered anything about their first real conversation?

"You got me thinking about how Coop and I used to be close," Calla admitted, pulling the explanation straight from her ass. It took every ounce of technique she'd learned over the years not to roll her eyes. "You were right. Things were different when we were little. And ever since Rachel...well."

Vincent looked stricken. He began to pace again, not knowing what to do with his hands. Shove them in his pockets? Run them through his hair? He did both, growing more agitated by the second.

"I didn't mean...I get that. But you two coulda just...just told me that," he burst out. Calla gave him a warning look and he winced, glancing at her closed door.

Yeah, we totally could have told you all about our hunt for a serial killer. Because, oh! I started this whole thing when I killed Tracy. Whoopsie.

Calla sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. She'd forgotten to put it up earlier, her thoughts consumed by Cooper and Vincent and Cory and—

Christ. When had boys become such a problem in her life?

"Look," Calla murmured, putting a measure of softness in her voice. "We didn't think to tell you because nothing is going on. It never even crossed our minds to give you a heads-up because we're—just—friends. Just friends."

"Well..." Vincent sighed, flushing. He turned his head to the side to try and hide his embarrassment as he leaned against her bathroom door. "I'm an ass, huh?"

"Yup."

He sighed again.

"Come here."

He glanced at her, surprised, as she patted the spot next to her on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his jaw—the same spot where the skin was still slightly discolored, courtesy of Gareth Walker.

"Well?"

He pushed off from the wall and plopped down next to her. "So we agree that maybe I...overreacted?"

"Just text Coop, will you? I'm tired of his melodramatic whining."

He smirked. "That does sound like Coop. Sorry 'bout that."

Calla hugged her knees to her chest, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "I have a question for you now."

Don't go down this path, Calla, she reprimanded herself. Don't make things more complicated than they need to be.

I'm not being complicated, another part of her argued—the part of her that was still stuck in that empty hall, wrapped in fire. I'm just asking a simple question.

"Oh?" Vincent laid back on her bed, suddenly at ease, and crossed his arms behind his head. He looked happier than he had in weeks, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A droplet of water ran down the side of his neck. Calla felt a strange urge to reach forward and brush the skin there.

"Mmm." She picked at a stray hair on her sweatpants, tossing it into the floor. Anything to distract her thoughts. "Where do you and Astrid stand?"

Vincent sat up, all pretense of nonchalance gone. He cleared his throat. "Um...why?"

"You got to drill me about Cooper," she explained calmly. "So I want to know about Astrid. Fair is fair, right?"

Vincent's blush was back in full force. "We aren't really talking right now, if that's what you're asking."

"That doesn't tell me where you stand with her, though," Calla argued, looking back down at the floor.

Did it matter? Would his answer bring her any closer to finding the killer?

He turned to her. They were sitting close enough that their arms brushed. "I'm not gonna lie, Calla...I don't really know. I've always had a thing for her, I guess. But she's different now. I don't know what it is." He paused. "I lost a damn good friend over her, and that's on me. So I'm keeping my distance. I don't like who she's turned me into."

If only you knew what I could turn you into.

"And who's that?" she asked softly, keeping her eyes on her sweatpants, suddenly fascinated by each individual thread.

"The kind of guy who goes behind a friend's back with his girl." He groaned. "I never wanted it to get so complicated."

Calla could relate. All too well.

"Well," she said lightly, eyes still cast downward. "Guess that answers my question. Sort of."

He didn't have anything to say to that.

She released her legs and fell back onto the bed, pushing her hair out of her face impatiently. Something about the turn in the conversation irked her.

I never wanted it to get so complicated.

Vincent leaned back, positioning himself so that he hovered next to her. Propping himself up on one elbow, he picked up a strand of her hair and ran it over his fingers, a soft smile on his face. "I like your hair like this."

She glanced over at him, immediately detecting the shift in subject. Not that she cared. If anything, she appreciated the reprieve. "It's annoying."

"It's beautiful," he murmured, and then paused, contemplating. "For a ginger."

"I think you've overstayed your welcome."

He grinned at her. "Kidding. Totally kidding."

Close. He was so close. He still hovered just beside her, gazing down at her with a playful look that had been absent for the last few weeks, having evaporated in the stress and confusion following Rachel's death. A look that taunted her. That consumed her.

Calla sat up and scooted further onto the bed so that she could lean against her mountain of pillows—and put enough space between them so that she could think.

You're playing with fire, Calla.

She gazed at the foot of the bed where Vincent still lounged. The look in his eyes shifted. She'd seen it before, at the dance. Wrapped up in fire.

Feeling bold, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "If you want to stay, you have to apologize. House rules. We don't allow ginger slander here."

"Of course," he said without missing a beat, trying to hide a smirk as he crawled up to her. "How could I be so rude?"

Oh.

He slowly positioned himself so that he hovered over her, his knees straddling her hips. He took care not to touch her, keeping a small gap of space between his body and hers. He smiled down at her as heat raced into her cheeks against her will, and very softly he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

She swallowed, trying to control her erratic breathing. She took one deep breath and then another. "Forgiven."

"Y'know, now that I think about it...I actually have one more question," he murmured, his lips still lingering by her ear.

Deep breath. "Yes?"

"Would it be too awful of me to kiss you again?"

He turned his face so that their lips were nearly brushing. In the back of her mind, Calla was aware of the promise she'd made to Cory, of the line she'd sworn not to cross with Vincent for fear of losing her focus.

She didn't care. Vincent was too close for her to care.

She reached up and grabbed his shirt, crushing him to her. He closed the gap between them instantly, their bodies melding together. Her hands moved from his shirt to twine in his hair, still damp from the shower. He smelled intoxicating—not like the sharp scent of cologne, but like rain and sweat and heat. Like summer.

He bit her bottom lip and she gasped, her fingers turning to claws in his hair. He groaned against her mouth and then moved to kiss her jaw, her neck. She arched into his touch. His fingertips left behind trails of fire, igniting every nerve in her body, a sensation that quickly spread down to her thighs.

She pulled his face back up to hers and began to explore his mouth, much to his delight. He smiled against her kisses, one hand holding his weight while the other trailed down her waist, her hips, her thighs. She was reminded again of how little experience she had in this—and how his experience more than made up for what she lacked.

She didn't mind. In this, she could be patient. She could learn.

With practice. Lots of practice.

He broke the kiss, panting. The hand still in his hair drifted down to his face, dragging down his cheek and then his neck. He shuddered and she smiled, pleased with herself.

"Wait. Maybe one more question." His voice came out as a breathless murmur. Experimenting, Calla leaned forward to kiss his jawline, working her way down his neck.

"Um." He let out a heavy sigh, his head rolling to one side, giving her better access. "Calla..."

"Mmm?" She leaned back and blinked at him innocently. "Did you have a question?"

"Uh." He hesitated, eyes focused on her lips. He swallowed. "It can wait..."

"Good," she murmured, wrapping her legs around his waist.

He leaned forward and, consumed by him, she forgot about Cory and Rachel and Cooper and all of the others who demanded her attention every second of every day.

In this moment—just this one moment—she could be selfish.