She'd lost her mind. That was the conclusion Cooper came to when Calla told him her plan.

We've played this too safe, she told him at school that Thursday. Four people are dead. And Vincent will be next if we don't do something. Screw Ryan. Screw Astrid. And screw their agenda. Let's see how they like the pressure on their shoulders.

Insanity. That's what it was. And yet, the longer Cooper ruminated on the idea—lying awake in bed at night in between bouts of nightmares—the more inclined he was to agree.

One way or another, this was all going to end, and soon. Either he would die, or he would live—but the waiting, the agonizing, would be over.

Cooper really, really hoped he lived.

He had no idea if Calla's plan would even work. They'd discussed it at length in their psych class while Mr. Prichard went to the office for an emergency faculty-wide meeting. There were so many pieces, so many moving parts. What if Stephanie didn't do her part? What if Ryan and Astrid didn't fall for the trap?

What if they call your bluff, Calla?

He could still see the look in her eyes as she stared at him, her lips pursed. The question had been more rhetorical than anything. He hadn't expected—hadn't wanted—her answer.

Then we go with Plan B, she'd told him, her voice low and cold.

Plan B. He never should have asked her what that meant. But he had, ignoring every alarm bell ringing in his head.

Plan B? What's Plan B?

Nope. He never should have asked.

Her answer had haunted him well into the night. In fact, it was the only reason he was here now—here being the welcome mat of Ryan Kane's house, looking like an absolute jackass with his hand hovering over the door. Too afraid to knock.

Too afraid to turn and walk away.

Calla's gonna kill me if she finds out I came here alone, he thought, trying to talk himself back into his car and away from the lair of a potential serial killer. But it's either this or...or Plan B.

Plan B. B—as in Bad. B—as in Bloodbath. B—as in Boy, I Wish I Had A Better Neighbor.

Steeling himself, Cooper rapped on the door, three taps in quick succession. And then he winced, waiting. He had no idea what he was going to say. All he knew was that if he didn't find a way to convince Calla that Ryan was innocent—if he didn't find a way to convince himself—then Ryan was going to die.

Calla would kill him. She would kill them all.

Gareth. Astrid. Ryan. Her eyes boring into his soul, pulling him down, down. Hell. Even Mike and Blake. Maybe Tom, too. All of them. I'll just...kill them all. No more mystery. No more guesswork. You'll be safe. He'll be safe.

Was this love? If so, Cooper wanted no part in it.

Just when he'd convinced himself that no one was home, the door cracked open. One dark, suspicious eye looked out at him through the sliver of space. "Coop?"

"Hey. Uh, can I—"

He never got the rest out. Before he could blink, Ryan flung open the door and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him inside.

The door slammed. The hand holding him by the shirt threw him against a nearby coat hanger, burying Cooper in a pile of soft cotton and starch leather. A hanger dug into his back, causing his spine to ache in protest.

Ryan pushed his face close, close enough that Cooper could smell a faint hint of cigarettes. His eyes darted around the room, but fear dulled his senses. He couldn't seem to make out anything beyond dark furniture, tacky rugs and that cigarette smell, stronger now that he was hyperventilating.

"What," Ryan ground out slowly, through clenched teeth. "Do. You. Want."

To live. Is that too much to ask?

"Uh." Cooper wriggled uncomfortably, trying to arch his back away from the coat hanger. "Right now? It'd be tight if you, uh, let go of me."

Ryan's bloodshot eyes never wavered. But it wasn't just the eyes that gave Cooper pause. The other boy looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days. Stubble grew in patches on his chin, his cheeks. His mouth twisted in a hard line, the muscles in his jaw fluttering.

Are their ghosts haunting you, the way they haunt me? Cooper thought, his back screaming for release. Is that why you can't sleep? Are you sorry you killed them?

He swallowed audibly, his hands slowly wrapping around Ryan's, gently trying to pry them loose. "I, uh, just wanted to talk. About what I said at school the other day. I know about the drugs—"

"Yeah. You made that clear. Why don't you—"

"Look," Cooper interjected, his voice hardening as a mix of desperation and manic determination took over. "People are dead. And Vincent is next. And then me. So if you're going to do something, just do it now and get it over with. Because I can't sleep, and it's driving me crazy."

Ryan blinked at him. And then he blinked again, more slowly this time, absorbing everything that had been said. "Dude. What?"

He released Cooper and took a step back, wary now.

Cooper folded his arms. "I said what I said."

"But what you said makes no sense," Ryan snapped, taking another step back. He was halfway on the living room rug now, his body angled. Preparing to bolt. As if Cooper were the dangerous one.

Ryan continued, making wild gestures with his hands. "Vincent's next? Next for what? What the hell am I supposedly doing in this situation, selling you a gram? Because I'm all out, dude. And Vincent never told me he wanted to buy in—"

"Stop, stop," Cooper interrupted, putting up his hands. "We don't want drugs."

The other boy put his hands on his head, his eyes wide and wild. "Then what the hell do you want from me?" he shouted. "My parents are already on my ass. I go to school, I come home. I go to class, I keep my head down. I had to write Gareth's mom a letter of apology, for God's sakes!"

He began walking in circles, his hands digging into his scalp. "I'm lucky to not be in juvie right now, you know that?" he added, miserable. "So I don't need guys like you coming around asking me for shit."

"I'm not asking you for anything," Cooper argued, gesturing toward the door. "But if this is really just about the drugs, Ryan, then why is Detective Michaels watching your house?"

"How do you...?" Ryan stopped pacing, burying his face in his hands. "Vincent. Fuck."

"Yeah. Vincent. He told me about the gala. Including the part where you were there when Rachel died." Cooper's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing.

He liked to think he looked like Calla in that moment. Fierce. Intimidating. But he probably just looked constipated.

"I..." Ryan ran his hands up and down his face. "No. Oh, God. Man, it's not like that. I deal coke on the side for cash, okay? I didn't kill anybody!"

Cooper eyed him, his heart hammering. "Pretty sure that's what the killer usually says."

"Look," Ryan tried again, desperate now. He clasped his hands together. "Gerald Michaels is doing my dad a favor, okay? That's all it is. My old man won't leave me alone in the house for more than two seconds. He doesn't trust me. And..." A heavy sigh. Ryan closed his eyes. "Cory bought from me a couple times, and his dad found out. He didn't want my shit going public, 'cause he knew Cory would get wrapped up in it, alright?"

Cooper crossed his arms. "So, what? He's your personal babysitter?"

"Basically." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's the only reason I'm on unofficial house arrest, or whatever. It's not like he just sits outside. Did you see him when you came barreling up here?"

I didn't come barreling anywhere, Cooper thought, flustered. But then he thought back, trying to picture the street as he'd seen it before. He'd been so panicked, he'd barely taken a moment to breathe, let alone examine the scenery.

Apprehensive—and not stoked by the idea of turning his back to Ryan—Cooper inched toward the front window, keeping his body angled toward the other boy, who rolled his eyes. He flicked open one of the blinds, peering out at the street.

Nothing. Not a soul in sight.

Cooper's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Well..."

"He's got better things to do," Ryan said, his voice low and depressed. Cooper turned to see him lift the hem of his sweatpants, revealing a monitor on his ankle. "Courtesy of the detective. This thing can track when and where I take a piss. I've been wearing it for a couple weeks now. The whole detective lurking outside my house thing was just a temporary fix."

Cooper stared down at the tracker, his eyes fixating on the blinking red light.

This thing can track when and where I take a piss.

He slumped against the front door and, very slowly, he slid to the ground.

"I was already on the way home when they found Jessica," Ryan added, sounding exhausted. "I go to school and then come straight back home, remember?"

"It wasn't you," Cooper whispered from the floor, relief flooding his system. "But the night Rachel died. You were there, back in the bathrooms. You ran..."

Still wary, Ryan mimicked Cooper and sat on the living room floor, leaning his back against the wall. He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. With a shrug, he said, "I bolted 'cause of the drugs, dude. I didn't exactly want to get caught doing blow in the bathroom. Gareth and I went back there for a quick bump. He left after. I stayed. More guys were supposed to meet me for a baggie, but I guess shit hit the fan. I went outside to see what the hell was taking so long, and...well. You know the rest."

But I don't, Cooper thought, frustrated now. And that's the problem.

They were both silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. And then, very quietly, Cooper asked: "Who knows? About you dealing?"

Ryan stared down at his mismatched socks—fucking mismatched socks—and frowned. "The people I sold to. Gareth. Astrid. That little bitch, Venus. Cory. Not Jessica, that's for sure." A dark chuckle. "Trevor. Ali. A couple freshmen. The senior class president, too."

"Ali Marks?" Cooper asked, dumbfounded. The Sheriff's niece?

"Yup," he said dryly. "You'd be surprised, dude."

Cooper rubbed his forehead. "How did you even get into this stuff?"

Ryan sighed. He spread his hands. "I dunno. One of the older guys on the team, I guess?" His eyes glazed over as a memory washed over him. "Yeah. Trey. Graduated last year. Cory got us into one of his parties and he offered us a line. And I guess we got to talking." Another heavy sigh. "How does this shit ever happen, y'know?"

Burying his head in his hands, Cooper let out a heavy sigh.

Blow. That's all it came down to. A little bit of white powder. A bad night transformed into a bad habit—one that quickly spiraled into a bad business.

But he wasn't a killer. He hadn't murdered Jessica over some petty squabble. That much was certain. And if he hadn't killed Jessica, the odds of him killing Rachel were slim to none.

Gareth and I went back there for a quick bump. He left after. I stayed. More guys were supposed to meet me for a baggie...

"How long were you waiting?" Cooper murmured, his head in his hands.

"What?"

"Back in the bathroom. The night of the dance." Cooper looked at him. "How long were you waiting for the other guys after Gareth left?"

Ryan frowned, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "Five minutes, max?"

Which is more than enough time to kill someone, Cooper thought, picturing Gareth slipping from the bathroom and running into Rachel. But why?

"Coop?" Ryan asked suddenly, startling him. Cooper looked up to find the other boy staring, his dark eyes filled with uncertainty.

"Yeah?"

"What did you mean...before?" he murmured, uncertain. "About Vincent and you being next, or whatever? And now, with all these questions..."

Cooper ran a hand through his hair. "Oh. Nothing. I don't know. Just haven't been sleeping, I guess."

He tried to smile. Based on Ryan's reaction, it must not have been very convincing.

The other boy stared and stared. And then, relenting, he said, "You and me both."

He doesn't believe me. But it is what it is.

They sat there for an awkward moment, Cooper's back throbbing where Ryan had thrown him into the coat hanger. His phone buzzed, the sound abnormally loud in the silence of the house. Ryan watched him while he dug it out of his pocket.

A text from Calla.

Where are you?

Ryan's.

Why?

He's good. Meet you at my place in 20?

She didn't respond. Of course.

I have to tell her, he thought, the panic from before kicking his heart back into high gear. I have to tell her before she comes for him.

He stood, probably a little too quickly. His head spun. "I, uh...I should probably go."

Ryan stood with him, his brows drawn low. He opened his mouth to say something, but Cooper cut him off. He didn't want to give him a chance to start asking questions.

"I'm sorry...for, y'know, being an ass." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's been a rough couple of months."

"You're telling me," Ryan muttered, still standing several feet from Cooper. His eyes were hard and distant, but not spiteful. Not bitter. Maybe there was still a chance Cooper could make things right between them. If either of them lived long enough.

Ryan cleared his throat. He gestured to his ankle. "Mind keeping this between us?"

"Oh. Yeah." Cooper opened the door, hesitating at the threshold. Cold air washed over him, raising the hair on his arms. "I will."

You, me...and Calla. Close enough, right?

He made a swift exit, not even bothering to look in the rearview mirror as he raced back to his apartment. He had no doubt that Ryan was watching him make his getaway. He would have questions. Lots of questions.

Cooper could worry about that later. He had other, larger concerns on his mind now.

He didn't kill Jess. But does that really mean he's innocent, Coop? His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Astrid could have killed her. The benefit of a two-man team.

But why would Astrid kill her best friend? Her confidante?

Something's missing, he thought, frustrated. He took the next turn a little too sharply. Something's not right. It's not adding up the way it should be.

Because that's how mysteries worked. You found pieces of the puzzle along the way. You put together your theories. And then, in the end, the killer was revealed. Badda-bing. Badda-boom.

He and Calla had pieces of the puzzle. They had a murder weapon, and fingerprints, and dead bodies and cryptic pages torn from cryptic books and the mind of a psychopath on their side. So why wasn't it adding up? Why hadn't Cooper had his ah-ha! moment yet?

Frazzled, he pulled into the lot of his apartment complex and sighed, leaning his head against the steering wheel. A headache the size of Texas was forming in the spot between his eyes, and he rubbed at it fiercely. Which, in hindsight, probably did nothing to help.

Ripping his keys out of the ignition, Cooper stepped out of the car and closed the door, leaning against it with a heavy sigh. He tilted his head to the sky and closed his eyes.

Calla, where are you? I can't do this alone.

"Hey, Coop!"

In typical spaz fashion, Cooper fumbled his keys, accidentally flinging them in the gravel. He whirled around to see Cory stepping out of his Honda, an apologetic smile on his boy band face.

"Sorry," he said, walking over. He bent down to retrieve Cooper's keys. The perfect fucking gentleman. "I was just heading out. But I saw you and...well. I thought you might know where Calla is?"

"What? Oh, no." He shuffled his feet, uncomfortable. "She's, ah..."

She's with Vincent for all I know, he thought sourly. Sorry, buddy.

Cory sighed, toying with Cooper's car keys. "I swear, she's impossible to keep track of."

"That's Calla for you," he offered lamely. He held out his hand, waiting for Cory to give him the keys.

He didn't. Cory kept flipping them around his fingers, staring down at them absently. His blonde hair ruffled in a slight breeze, but he didn't seem cold, not even in his short sleeve t-shirt. As if to himself, he murmured, "I don't understand..."

"Well..." Cooper trailed off, dropping his hand. He pretended to stretch, swinging his arms behind his back. "I'm gonna, ah, head inside. I can text Calla for you, if you want."

"Yeah." Cory brightened, giving him a grateful smile. "Could you?"

"Oh. Sure." Irritated now, Cooper took out his phone and sent her a string of increasingly agitated texts, ranting about Cory and how his infatuation with her was now becoming his problem, which was no bueno.

He held up his phone. "Sent it. Maybe I'll have better luck."

And then, with as much emphasis as he could muster, Cooper held out his hand. Again.

Cory went still, the keys hanging from his index finger. That small smile was still on his face, but it was different somehow. More amused. He tilted his head to the side, watching Cooper the way a cat might watch a bird outside of its window.

Or the way Calla might watch a cat outside of her window.

"My mom's waiting." Cooper had no idea why he said it. His mom wasn't home—she was at work. But the words were past his lips before he could fully understand why, exactly, he suddenly felt so nervous.

His hand dropped by his side. It felt stiff. Numb.

Cory's amused smile grew. "Is she?"

That smile. And those pretty blue eyes—not so pretty anymore. Not so pretty at all.

Cooper didn't think about what he did next. He just ran. He ran the way he had that day he'd found the dead cat in the field. But he didn't make it home. Not this time.

He rounded the corner of his building when he felt a pair of powerful arms wrap around his throat, cutting off his air supply. For one wild moment, he thought Cory would snap his neck—just like that. But the arms squeezed and squeezed, until his throat tightened and his muscles began to grow slack, his brain screaming for air.

And then Cooper's world went dark.