There was blood under Calla Parker's fingernails. Blood and dirt.

She stared down at the water rushing down the sink, expressionless. Her skin burned with the intensity with which she scrubbed her hands. If she scrubbed hard enough, maybe she would break skin. Then she could pretend the blood was her own.

Yes. She could pretend. But that wouldn't make her reality any less sinister.

She'd known the moment she ran her hands under the sink that the blood didn't belong to her. She'd already double-checked her body for injuries. Even a papercut would have sufficed. But just as she'd thought, there were none. She didn't have so much as a bruise.

Her eyes flashed from the bathroom to her purple bedspread, combing the space for any indication of wrong. A ruffled curtain. A misplaced shoe. Something that would explain the filth on her hands.

Her clothes from the night before—why had she dressed as a witch, of all things?—were in a pile at the foot of her bed. Odd, perhaps. She wasn't normally so careless. But discarded clothes were certainly no red flag.

It's probably fake, she mused, attacking her nail beds. Dye for some tacky vampire costume. Or maybe a bloody pirate. Zombie? Probably a zombie.

Calla thought back to the night before. She vaguely remembered a party. Loud music. A lot of booze. Not that she'd touched the stuff—had she?

People. There were definitely a lot of people. Tracy must have invited half the school.

The same could be said of any Smith party. She sighed. She hadn't wanted to go to the damn thing, but Rachel had forced her with that disgusting pout she always pulled when she wanted to get her way.

Calla frowned, trying to remember more—who had been there, what she'd done—but she drew a blank. Her memory felt like a vast abyss, stretching on into darkness. No matter how hard she pushed against that abyss, it never gave an inch. If anything, it only grew wider. Larger.

As if to spite her.

"Calla?"

Rosalind Parker didn't bother knocking. Calla shut off the water and grabbed a towel just as her mother burst into the room, her dark eyes wide and worried. She gave her mother a tired smile, though she wasn't tired at all.

"Did you hear the news?" Rosalind leaned against the doorframe. She looked exhausted. "About Tracy?"

Calla froze, hands twisted in the towel. "What about Tracy?"

"She's dead," her mother said softly. A moment later, Calla realized why. She was supposed to be close to Tracy. Or at least, close enough to care. "Killed. I told you those parties were dangerous."

Calla forced her expression into one of shock. Inside, she felt...indigestion. What the hell had she eaten last night?

"Dead?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid so." Her mother shook her head. "The police aren't saying anything, of course. But you know how word gets around."

Horror. Shock. That's what you're supposed to be feeling right now. Don't forget.

Calla wanted to snatch her clothes from the floor and analyze every thread of fabric. She wanted to rifle through her drawers. Through her closet. She wanted—needed—to find something that would give her a clue as to what the hell had happened the night before.

Her hands burned. She had a creeping suspicion she already knew the answer to the question rattling the bones of Greenwitch County.

Calla shuffled over to her bed and sat down. She forced out a deep breath. "Lucky I left early, I guess."

But how early? And who saw me leave?

"Lucky you did," her mother agreed, grim. "It's a mess. That Daniels boy—"

"Daniels?" Calla interrupted. "Cooper Daniels?"

"The same." Rosalind rolled her eyes. "They actually brought him in. To the station. If I were Amelia, I'd have Pendowski's ass for shutting my kid in some cell."

She didn't question how her mother knew this information. She'd been right on at least one count. Word got around in a town like Greenwitch.

Rosalind made another comment or two on how horrible the entire situation was—and how very sorry she was for Rachel, for Calla—before announcing that breakfast was ready. Calla barely heard her. Her thoughts were consumed by memories of Tracy Smith. Of music and mayhem and flashing lights.

And Cooper Daniels.

She turned to look out of her bedroom window. The sun had just begun its ascent into the sky; it hung over the field separating her house from the brick apartment complex next door. She imagined if she looked hard enough, she would be able to see Cooper through his bedroom window, sleeping peacefully.

Maybe not so peacefully, all things considered.

Calla lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers, watching the veins move beneath her skin—her fragile, fragile skin. She knew how easily a knife could slice through skin. She'd accidentally nicked herself a thousand times in the kitchen. And when the blood started running, it seemed to run forever.

Calla waited until she was sure her mother was back in the kitchen before plucking her phone from the nightstand by her bed. And then she called the only person in the world who might have all the answers she needed.

"Calla?"

"Hey, Rach." She allowed a respectful pause. If she blew this, Rachel would give her nothing but the cold shoulder for days, if not weeks. And Calla didn't have that kind of time. "Mom just told me the news. D'you wanna talk about it?"

The other end of the line was silent. Calla kept count of the seconds that passed—three, four, five—until Rachel finally broke down in a sob. Calla felt herself relax. Sobbing was good. Sobbing meant she'd said the right thing.

"It's awful," Rachel finally said. "I can't believe she's gone."

"Neither can I," Calla admitted truthfully.

"She was like my sister." She sniffed loudly. Calla narrowed her eyes and held the phone away from her ear, as if misery were something she could catch. When Rachel spoke, her voice came out as a tinny whine. "Why would anyone do this?"

Calla withheld a sigh. There were a number of reasons why Tracy could have been killed, and none would comfort her best friend.

Well. She was a horrible bitch, for one.

"Some people are sick in the head," she said instead. "No one can explain that."

Rachel's voice sounded stronger when she spoke next. Angrier. "Whoever it is, they're going to rot in hell."

Calla shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her fingers—up until recently, stained pink with the remnants of blood—twisted in the sheets. She needed to take control of the conversation before it got out of hand. "Have you talked to the police?" Aggressive. Too aggressive. "I mean...do you remember anything? From last night?"

"Barely." Rachel sounded defeated. "I've got the worst hangover..."

"Same," she lied. "I can't remember anything." She paused, wondering if she should improvise to try and prod something from Rachel's memory. She didn't have much experience with grief. Would a game of twenty questions push her over the edge?

I won't know if I don't try.

Calla proceeded with caution. "Did we...leave the party early? Before...?"

She trailed off, leaving the door open. Hoping Rachel would step through with open arms.

She took the bait. Calla refrained from grinning. "Yeah...maybe? I think you did. I remember you found me downstairs."

"Why did I leave so early?" she murmured. Her confusion was not a ploy. Not this time.

Memories of the night before—memories that should have been front and center—remained out of her reach.

"Something about your mom. You know how she is."

Calla immediately pulled the phone from her ear and went through her texts. She almost sighed with relief when she saw the message from Rosalind at 10:34 last night.

Come home ASAP...no sleepovers tonight.

I had an excuse to leave, Calla thought, strangely relieved. On the other end of the phone, Rachel's tone shifted to something like embarrassment. "I was so drunk. God. I think Cooper Daniels was with me. At least at some point. But that's where it gets fuzzy..."

"Cooper Daniels?" Calla returned the phone to her ear, suddenly invested in the conversation.

That name again. Cooper Daniels. The boy who found the body.

Calla's eyes drifted back over to the window. Hello, neighbor.

"Yeah." Rachel cleared her throat awkwardly. "He, uh, helped me to my room. I think."

Calla's temper suddenly flared. "What do you mean, helped you? Did he try anything?"

"No! God." Rachel laughed nervously. "I think I did, actually. But when I woke up there was a trash can by the bed and the door was locked from the inside."

"Hmm." Calla relaxed back on the bed, placated. Good guy Cooper Daniels. Taking care of the drunk girl at the party and calling in dead bodies.

"Yeah. He was kinda sweet. I guess. I don't know." Rachel paused, and her voice became melancholy again. "I can't believe she's gone, Calla."

This again. Calla sighed into the phone. "Me either." A respectful pause. Then: "Do you remember seeing her? At all?"

"Well, obviously. She met us at the door." Rachel sounded uncertain. "And we took a few shots together. I have a picture of us on my phone..."

Calla let Rachel reminisce. It was a few seconds before she spoke again, and when she did, she sounded weary.

"I saw her go upstairs. I saw her. But I didn't think anything of it. I didn't—"

"It's okay, Rach." Calla knew she had gotten all she could from her. At least for now. "We can talk about it later."

Rachel heaved a great, shuddering sigh. "Thanks for calling, Cal. You're a good friend." Her voice wavered. "You're like a sister too, you know that?"

Calla said nothing. She could picture Rachel perfectly, sitting on the edge of her bed as Calla was, a box of tissues on her huge body pillow. Her nose would be red from crying. Her eyes would be bloodshot. And her hair—black like Tracy's—would be up in a messy bun.

"Love you, Rach," Calla murmured. She let the words sink in, but felt nothing.

It was a lie.

"Love you too, Cal." Rachel meant it. The words rang with sincerity.

Calla hung up the phone.