Cooper had never seen anything quite like it. Quite like her.

He imagined if you took the base of who someone was—if you whittled down deep, past the empathy, and the love, and the weight of regret—you would get something a hell of a lot like Calla Parker. Raw. Untethered.

A force of nature.

From only a few paces down the hall, Cooper watched as she crushed Cory's windpipe between her fingers.

Kill him. Please, just kill him and be done with it.

"What's happening?" Vincent asked from the other side of the door. A gurgling scream pierced the air, and he heard an intake of breath. "Cooper, what the hell is—"

"Shut up!" Cooper hissed, wriggling his left foot free. Vincent had managed to pry the door open enough that the two thought he might be able to squeeze his way out. Emphasis on squeeze.

A little more, he thought, desperate. He braced his hands against the edge of the door and hissed. The piece of glass he'd used to try and break through the zip tie binding his wrists had done a number of him.

All that work. All that pain—and for not a damn thing. The stubborn plastic had refused to give when he and Vincent attempted to free themselves, leaving both boys with gouges on their palms deep enough to scar.

Girls like scars, right? Vincent had joked half-heartedly, his face white as a sheet as he stared down at his bound—and now bloody—hands.

Cooper hadn't had the heart to laugh. And he certainly wasn't laughing now, stuck as he was between a metaphorical rock and a hard place.

Definitely a hard place, he thought, his head swimming as he gave another heave, popping his left leg free. How much blood had he lost, anyway? His stomach lurched as he glanced at his mangled hands spread along the edge of the door.

Don't look. Just don't lo—

He flinched as a loud crack filled the air. His eyes flashed down the hall, analyzing the dark shapes tangled on the floor. He prayed that Cory hadn't noticed him.

He hadn't. His entire focus was on the girl beneath him—the girl who was suddenly lying very, very still.

"Calla!" Cooper croaked. His ribs screamed in protest as he redoubled his efforts to break free. One door down, Cory pushed himself to his feet, his hands clutching his throat.

"What? What's wrong? Calla!" Vincent shouted, his voice breaking. He couldn't see her, not by a long shot. But he could hear the panic in Cooper's voice, and apparently, that was enough. "Where is she? What's happening?"

Cooper stared at the slim figure lying on the floor. His mouth went dry.

"Coop?" Vincent rasped, his fingers grasping at the parts of Cooper still stuck on the other side of the door. "Calla...what...where—"

Cooper didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. "She's fine," he muttered instead, pulling his left shoulder free of the door. "She's fine. She's fine, okay?"

Say it one more time, Coop. Maybe then you'll believe it.

"You're fine," he whispered, his voice cracking on the last syllable. His throat tightened and he glared over at the spot where she'd collapsed. "You have to be fine. You owe me, you bitch. You promised."

Cory slumped against the nearby wall, his head bowed. He hadn't turned in Cooper's direction. Whatever Calla had done to him—because Cooper was confident that the scream from before had been his—had left him disoriented.

Disoriented and hopefully on the brink of death. Bastard.

Cooper gasped as, with one last tug, his hips slid free, followed quickly by the rest. The momentum carried him forward, to freedom, to—

To pain.

Cooper felt the blood drain from his face as his ankle caught in the door. An instant later, he felt a horrible pop in his heel. The kind of pop a body part was definitely not supposed to make.

Shut up, Cooper. Shut up shut up shut up.

A mangled groan crawled up his throat, defying his orders. He bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood.

Tears blurred his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take a deep breath. To calm. The hell. Down.

Haven't you learned anything from the movies, Coop? Never take your eyes off of the monster in the dark.

His eyes snapped open—just in time to notice the black pistol hovering inches away from the spot between his eyes.

"You," Cory hissed, a blood-soaked finger tightening around the trigger. His left hand still clutched at his throat, coated with a layer of something dark and slippery—

Cooper's stomach did a somersault.

"You are the problem!" Cory screamed, though it came out as a sort of gurgle. He coughed, and flecks of the same dark liquid spilling from throat splattered across his lips.

She tore it open, Cooper realized, struck with horrified awe. She tore his throat...open.

Vincent shouted something indiscernible, straining against the door. The wood groaned as he pushed his weight into it, his efforts far more significant than Cooper's had been.

Cory smiled, his teeth coated with a film of blood. He pressed the gun against Cooper's forehead. His nostrils flared. "Keep talking, Townson. I'll blow his brains across your face."

The tension against the door eased. Cooper felt the door close back on his ankle and he whimpered.

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Cory murmured. A strange rattling came from his throat with every intake of breath. "If I made this quick. Hmm? Answer me, Daniels."

He gave another raspy cough. Cooper shrank back as blood spattered across his left cheek.

"Do whatever you want," he hissed, unable to hide his disgust. "Just don't cough on me again."

"What? It's just a scratch," Cory croaked, gaining control of himself. He smiled grimly and dropped the other hand from his throat, revealing the extent of the damage beneath.

Just a scratch.

Cory swallowed, and the exposed lining of his throat—soft and pink and slick with his own blood—writhed. Flaps of skin hung loose, the torn flesh ripped nearly down to the bone. Calla hadn't just tried to break his neck, as Cooper had first thought. He could see where she'd dug her thumbs into the soft spot above his collarbone, and then yanked—

His stomach did another flip.

She didn't just want to kill him, Cooper realized, unable to look away from the grisly sight. She wanted him to suffer.

Cory's eyes narrowed. He could see the wheels turning in Cooper's head, see the revulsion painted in every line of his face. "She's...she's just confused. She doesn't understand."

Vincent pressed against the other side of the door, straining to see out into the hall. Cooper's heart sprang back into his throat. If Vincent saw Cory, if he saw what she'd done...

He gritted his teeth and jerked his ankle through the door. The pain momentarily blinded him, but he managed to fall back into the door, gasping. Effectively shutting his best friend safely inside.

Cory reached over the back of the armchair and grabbed him by the front of the shirt, pinning him to the door. He gritted his red teeth and pressed the gun into his face. "Don't. Move."

"Coop!" Vincent shouted, pounding his fists against the door.

Cooper swallowed his fear and the acid bite of bile. He pursed his lips, refusing to close his eyes. If Cory pulled that trigger, he didn't want to die in the dark. "Calla's not the one who's confused."

"You don't know her," Cory rasped, the flesh at his throat bobbing. The gun trembled in his grip.

"And you do?" Cooper snapped. He knew that his odds of survival weren't great. Baiting a serial killer wouldn't exactly help those odds—but pleading wouldn't save him, either. "If you really know what she is, then why were you stupid enough to kill her best friend?"

"Cooper!" Vincent shouted again. Something heavier than a fist hit the door, rattling Cooper's teeth.

Cory barely seemed to notice. His face twisted into something very like desperation, his eyes wide and wild. "I know exactly what she is. She's perfection. And this?" He waved the gun in the air, encompassing the entire house—and the entire damnable town of Greenwitch with it. "She's too good for this. Everyone in this town is worthless. Calla knows that. So she did something about it."

Cooper swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "You don't—" he started, breathless.

"Don't what? Don't know about Tracy?" A demented light filled Cory's eyes. "Oh, I know. I saw. You should have seen her. She was...she was..."

A force of nature.

Cooper slumped against the door, suddenly exhausted. He'd known. He'd always known. Under that oak tree, staring at those tufts of bloody fur—he'd known.

You knew about Tracy Smith, too. And you. Did. Nothing.

"She was happy," Cory finished, breathless with awe. "For the first time. Watching that girl die, it filled something empty inside of her. You could see it. She was..."

Free. Cooper could see it perfectly. She was free.

"Killing Rachel didn't make her happy," Cooper interjected weakly, trying to force down the despair that threatened to crush him.

Vincent slammed into the door again, and Cory's left eye twitched. "You don't understand."

"You're selfish," Cooper continued, powering on. "You did it for you. Stop hiding behind Calla and face it like a man, you creep."

"You don't understand." The gun shook in Cooper's face, wobbling badly enough that for one hopeful moment, he thought it might fly right out of his hand.

"Understand what?" he exploded.

"I didn't kill that stupid bitch."

Cory panted, planting his feet wide to steady himself. Blood continued to trickle down his throat and into the front of his shirt, soaking it.

"COOP!" Vincent screamed.

"Shut up," Cory rasped. "SHUT UP! You idiots. Look where she is right now. Look where she is!" He leaned in close, the smell of blood and rotten fruit wafting over him. "This is your fault. You're no good for her. You make her weak—"

Something hard rammed into Cory from the side.

Cooper barely had time to process the flash of red hair. Or anything, for that matter. He just knew he had to move.

He stumbled around the armchair, doing his best not to dislodge it. He knew Vincent would be furious if they survived this, but Cooper couldn't risk putting his life in danger. Not even to save his own.

It's not just Cory I need to worry about, either, he thought grimly, his eyes tracking Calla as she struggled to regain her footing. Something small and metallic flashed as it fell from the waistband of her jeans, bouncing across the floor and landing at his feet.

He recognized it a moment later. Calla had brought a knife to a gun fight.

Cory scrambled over the ground on his hands and knees, trying to escape Calla's wrath. She panted as she used the bannister to drag herself upright, her arms shaking. Blood ran down her face, her throat. Cooper wondered how much of that blood belonged to Cory.

She reached for something at her back, only to find it wasn't there. Her eyes widened and she scanned the hall, frantic.

Cooper's eyes darted to the knife, and then he glanced across the room, making eye contact with Cory. They'd both noticed the knife. But it took Cooper precious seconds to realize the gun was gone, knocked aside in Calla's hail mary assault.

"There," she whispered, connecting the dots before he could.

His eyes followed hers. The gun gleamed over by the bannister, teetering dangerously close to the edge. Close. But not quite close enough. Cory would reach it first.

Then again, Cooper knew better than to underestimate Calla Parker.

"Cooper!" Calla shouted, breaking the spell holding the three of them in place.

On instinct, Cooper lunged for the knife. He expected Calla to go for the gun. Hoping—praying, really—that she could reach it in time.

But he'd miscalculated the distance. Cory's stride outdistanced Calla's. A conclusion that she had already come to. She darted to Cooper's side as Cory grabbed the gun and turned, aiming—

He pulled the trigger.

Calla stumbled back into Cooper. He tried to catch her, but his bound hands and broken ankle complicated matters. They both fell, and they fell hard. Calla landed half on top of him, her fingers digging into the carpet. From this angle, he could only see her profile.

"Calla?" he asked, leaning forward, her back pressed against his chest. He grabbed her by the shoulder. "Calla, what's—?"

"Ow," she whispered.

He pulled away and looked at his hands. His fingers were slick with blood.

Behind the door, Vincent had gone silent.

Cory stared at them from across the hall, his eyes wide with horror. He dropped the gun and it clattered against the railing before slipping over the side and crashing to the ground far below.

The gun. But what about...?

Alarmed, Cooper scanned the floor. He'd dropped the knife. Of course he'd dropped the knife.

"Cooper," Calla murmured, slumping against him for support. Her eyes were locked on a spot over by the wall.

He glanced over. A flash of silver winked back at him.

Calla shifted in his arms, trying to right herself, and hissed. A sheen of sweat had gathered on her forehead. She closed her eyes, as if blocking out a voice only she could hear.

"Cooper," she repeated through clenched teeth. "Go. Now."

His words to her, repeated back to him. Funny, how the tables had turned. And not quite funny at all.

Get the knife.

Cooper wiggled out from underneath her, trying to ignore the panic threatening to suffocate him. He couldn't think about Calla. He couldn't think about her blood on his fingers. He scrambled to his feet, holding back tears as his ankle gave out.

This is your fault.

He limped over to the knife. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring Cory's panicked murmurs behind him. Ignoring Calla's labored breathing.

You're no good for her.

He fumbled for the knife in the darkness. His fingers brushed the handle—surprisingly warm. He clutched it like a lifeline, grasping it with both hands.

You make her weak.

Cooper shuffled forward, holding the knife in front of him. His breath came out labored, uneven. Cory knelt beside Calla, who, for her part, sat perfectly still. She watched the psychotic murderer holding her with carefully composed indifference. Cory pressed his hands over the bullet wound, his eyes wide and frantic. The skin at his throat dangled into the open air, swinging freely.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he murmured, talking to himself. Calla's eyes shifted to Cooper. They were hard. Cold.

Do it, they whispered.

"Please. Please," Cory begged. "It was an accident. An accident. Rachel...I have to tell you about Rachel. An accident..."

Her eyes narrowed when Cooper hesitated, the knife hovering over Cory's back. He didn't seem to notice. His universe had shrunk to the size of the hole in Calla's shoulder.

"Calla," he whispered, tearful. "I didn't kill—"

"Do it," she hissed.

Cooper closed his eyes and drove the knife into Cory's back.

Cory's back arched, twisting away from the blade in his spine. He choked and twisted, his bloody hands scrabbling at his back. Trying to reach the knife. To save himself.

Calla struggled to her feet, backing away from Cory. A look of revulsion twisted her mouth.

"Calla," Cory gasped, crawling over to the bannister. He repeated her name over and over. A mantra.

A prayer.

Cooper sank to his knees. His fingers began to tremble. Tears stung his eyes.

Murderer.

"Coop."

Filth.

"Cooper."

Monster.

"Coop." Calla knelt in front of him. Her flinty eyes assessed him.

"Monster," he whispered aloud.

She pursed her lips. And then she stood, watching Cory haul himself upright, crawling up the bannister. He draped himself over the edge of the railing, the knife sticking out of his back like the quill of a porcupine. He convulsed as blood dribbled out of his mouth.

"Monster," Cooper repeated softly.

Who, Coop? Them? Or you?

Calla glanced back at him. And then she strode forward, her sights set on Cory. Without hesitating, she grabbed the knife in his back and twisted. He screamed and thrashed, his legs buckling. He leaned forward, trying to get away from the pain.

Calla moved, faster than a striking snake. She gripped the belt loop of his jeans and pushed, using the momentum of his panicked frenzy to send him over the edge. Cooper didn't watch Cory fall. Instead, he stared at Calla's face.

Watching that girl die, it filled something empty inside of her. You could see it. She was...

He closed his eyes, flinching at the sound of Cory's body hitting the floor far below.

She was happy.