Monster.

Calla gripped the bannister, her bloodstained knuckles aching from the strain. She stared down at the dark shape sprawled on the ground far below. So far. She could still hear the satisfying crack as his skull made contact with the polished floor.

She would relish that sound for the rest of her life. However long that would be.

The bullet in her shoulder sang, and that song was agony. How the hell had that thing not gone straight through her? It had to be some sort of divine punishment. Penance for the evil things she'd done, and still had yet to do.

"Punishment?" a silky voice purred.

Calla whirled around, nostrils flaring. Cooper knelt on the ground where she'd last left him, locked in a sort of trance. He swayed from side to side, his eyes closed and head tilted back to the ceiling, still mumbling about monsters.

Somewhere off to the side, she saw a flash of black hair—or was it merely a shadow?

"What punishment does my murderer deserve?" the voice asked again, closer now. Something cold brushed the back of Calla's neck.

She turned. And came face to face with a very dead Tracy Smith.

She gave Calla a mocking smirk and leaned in. Cold air brushed her face as Tracy's nose hovered by hers, millimeters away.

"Calla," she breathed, almost lovingly. "I'll always be with you."

She blinked, and Tracy was gone.

"You bitch," she whispered, clapping her hand over the bullet wound in her shoulder. She clenched her fingers around it and closed her eyes. Warmth gushed between her fingers. "You miserable bitch."

From down the hall, the door leading into guest-bedroom-turned-prison-cell burst open in a flurry of splintered wood. Cooper flinched. And then blinked several times, shaking himself from a horrible trance.

Vincent stumbled out into the hall, disoriented. Blood wept from a cut above his brow, but it was his shoulder that looked worse for wear. His right arm hung by his side, immobile. He gave the hall a quick sweep. He spotted Cooper first and started forward, his eyes dancing over her—

He stopped. And then his face crumpled.

"I thought you two were dead," he croaked.

Unable—or perhaps unwilling—to move, the three stared at each other from their respective places in the dark hallway. Afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe. Afraid that their nightmare was not, in fact, over.

Blood rolled over Calla's fingers. A wave of dizziness struck her and she wavered, her grip tightening on the rail. At least, it felt like her grip tightened. But her fingers, slick with blood, slipped against the smooth wood and she stumbled, falling to her knees.

What punishment does my murderer deserve? Tracy's taunting words drifted across her thoughts. Calla's vision dimmed. This time, there was no headache.

Just pain.

"Calla? Hey, Calla." Warm hands stroked her cheeks, her hair. She felt fingertips brush the back of the hand that clutched her shoulder, trying desperately to hold the blood inside her body.

"Coop?" the same voice asked, rising with panic. "Coop, she's—"

"We need to call an ambulance." Cooper's voice sounded different. Stronger. And much closer. "We need to find a phone."

"No time." Vincent mumbled a string of curses as he hauled Calla into his arms. Her stomach did a flip as he lifted her, cradling her to his chest.

"How the hell did you get out of the zip ties?" Cooper asked in bewilderment, some of the life in his voice returning. "How the hell did you get out of the room?"

"No thanks to you," Vincent muttered darkly. Calla stared up at the vague shadow of his jaw—or was that the curve of his shoulder? She couldn't be sure.

The pain swallowed her whole, pulling her under.

"Let's argue later," Cooper offered, evasive.

Vincent grunted, striding down the hall. He held her close, trying not to jostle her. But there was nothing he could do about the stairs. She grimaced as the fire in her shoulder intensified, each step pushing her further into darkness.

Too much blood, she realized. I'm losing too much blood. That, and I probably already have a concussion.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Vincent murmured, anxious. "Hang on, okay?"

Behind her—or maybe he was ahead of her?—Cooper remained silent. His words from before played through her head, drawing her out of the dark.

You have to be fine. You owe me, you bitch. You promised.

She owed him nothing, not anymore. She'd paid her debts in full. Cory was dead. Deader than dead. He would make one hell of a zombie if he ever reanimated, she decided.

I'm losing it, she thought, amused. Cooper would have appreciated the zombie reference. But when the hell had she ever cared about his approval?

Monster, he'd whispered. Over and over and over again.

I came for you, she wanted to scream, to rage. I came for you, you ungrateful little shit. I killed for you.

The ultimate truth. The thing she'd been denying since the moment she pushed Cory off of that ledge.

Not for Vincent. Not for Rachel. Not for myself. For you, Cooper Daniels.

She couldn't say the words, not while Vincent cradled her in his arms. Not while so much was still uncertain.

Calla felt the moment Vincent caught sight of Cory's lifeless body. He froze mid-stride, rocking her. But he didn't say anything. Not a curse, nor a prayer.

A few seconds passed, and then he drew a sharp intake of breath. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find his phone," Cooper muttered. "He's got—fuck me. It's totally busted. I guess the fall—"

"We don't have time, Coop. Let's just go."

"Go? Where—"

"Car," Calla mumbled, the fingers on her left hand twitching.

"Car?" Vincent asked, leaning down. She felt his lips close to her ear. "Where? What car?"

"Coop," she elaborated, blinking away the dark spots in her vision. She took a deep breath, a moment of clarity gripping her. "The Mustang. End of the driveway. I left the keys inside."

"You..." Vincent was already striding for the front door. From somewhere behind them, she heard Cooper shout, "You drove my baby into this mess?"

Calla smirked, her sight dimming. Above her, Vincent sighed.

"Just hold on," he murmured. And then—the sound of a door opening. Cold air washed over her face, and she thought Tracy had come back for her, after all. Back to drag her soul to hell. "Hold on, Calla."

I'll hold on, she thought.

Darkness gripped her hand and together, they slipped under.

*     *     *     *     *

The next half hour plunged Calla's world into chaos.

She couldn't exactly recall how she'd ended up in Cooper's Mustang. She remembered the bite of cold air, and the even colder light of the stars wheeling overhead.

She remembered the rumble of Vincent's voice vibrating through her chest.

She remembered lying in the passenger seat, curled up in Cooper's lap, who held her with the caution of one holding a particularly pissed off rattlesnake.

She remembered darkness.

And then—lights.

Red lights. Blue lights. White lights. Flashing lights.

Strobe lights.

And voices. Voices in the car. Filled with static and white noise. Voices in her head.

Monster.

*     *     *     *     *

"Who shot her? Did you say—"

"Let me see that leg."

"Slow down."

Inhale.

"Can someone tell me what the hell happened here?"

Exhale.

"We need to get a drip going, sir. She's losing a lot of—"

"Blood, yes. Go. Go now. Wait. Where the fuck is Richards? For christsake. Call him!"

"What about the detective? Michaels, sir."

Silence.

Blessed.

Blissful.

Silence.

*     *     *     *     *

And in that silence, there was a door.

Calla blinked. She recognized the brassy knob almost immediately. Smooth. Polished. Worn down from the constant twisting and turning of small fingers.

Untouched for weeks. Months. Years.

I'm home.

The smell of honeysuckle filled the air. Her mother's favorite candle, burning somewhere in the house, filling the halls and the empty room—

The empty room.

Calla stared at the door. She felt strangely...warm. And light as a feather. She could feel the tips of her fingers and the air in her lungs, but she couldn't seem to feel the weight of her bones or the mass of her heart. It was as if some god had reached deep inside of her and ripped out her innards, discarding them in a steaming pile on the floor.

I'm dreaming, she realized. She reached out to brush her fingers against the doorknob. This is a dream. I'm home, but not home.

And then, a second thought: I'm still alive.

"What's behind that door?"

Calla flinched. The voice did not belong to her mother.

She turned. Rachel stood to her left, hovering over her shoulder. Dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, which had dimmed considerably in death. But they shone now with a sort of morbid curiosity. As if she knew nothing good could lay on the other side of the door.

Knew, and wanted to find out what it was, anyway.

"You never told me," Rachel elaborated. "What's in there?"

"An empty room," Calla murmured. In the background, somewhere off in the kitchen, a woman began to cry.

"Why's it empty?" Rachel whispered.

Cold air brushed Calla's cheek, drifting from the crack beneath the door. She shivered.

"It..." Her fingertips brushed the smooth metal of the doorknob. She was surprised to find them trembling. "It was..."

Her head pulsed. Dark spots danced across her vision.

Panicking now—she couldn't go back into that darkness—Calla turned the doorknob and burst into the room.

On the other side, she found a very different room than the one she'd been anticipating. Where the twin bed should have been, an upholstered armchair now sat. And where the toy dinosaurs had once stood vigil—stacked along the dresser like a colorful parade—there were only empty picture frames. Shattered glass sparkled on the floor, replacing the blue rug Calla had spent countless nights rolling around on, giggling.

Panting, she did a full three-sixty, spinning in circles. This wasn't her house.

This wasn't the empty room.

Cold air filled the space. Slithering across her shoulders, her collarbone—

Calla stiffened. Her breath came out in little puffs.

The icy air hardened, solidifying into iron fists that clamped around her throat.

*     *     *     *     *

She'll sting you one day.

She gasped as she bolted upright, her eyes squeezed shut. Warm air filled her lungs. And for a moment, she felt relief.

One feather is of no use to me.

She opened her eyes. Tall pine trees loomed over her, blocking out the sky.

Kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token.

The disembodied voice sounded...familiar. As a lullaby might. Or perhaps the voice of an old friend. An old, dead friend.

I'm Death, it whispered again. The trees stood motionless. Not a single breath of wind brushed their branches. And I make all equal.

The voice in her head—it had to be in her head, as it could be coming from nowhere else—became louder, more insistent. Until it wasn't a voice in her head at all. The next words were clear as a bell, and deep. The bass tenor of a man.

"My love for her is so great, that if all the leaves on the trees were tongues, they would not be able to express it."

Something rustled off to her left. She twisted. Her head swam from the swift movement and she winced.

A low chuckle. She recognized it as the voice from before. "Easy, there."

Cory sat with his back against one of the ancient trees, looking at ease despite the horrendous gash in his throat. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He watched her with warm, loving eyes.

His death had not softened her heart. She hissed.

He sighed. It sounded weary. Sad. "I was afraid of that."

"You should be afraid of me," she snapped, attempting to stand. The movement caused her too much pain and she swore, falling back to her knees.

He smirked at her. "It's not that serious."

The expression on his face, paired with those words, sent her back to a different time and a much different place. She stood beside him in a crowded hallway, her shoulder braced against a locker as he tried to reassure her, downplaying the death of their beloved classmate.

His words had seemed playful at the time. But of course, he'd been hinting at something much more sinister. Why worry about a killer—when the killer is you?

She blinked. The old pine trees came back into focus. His blue eyes assessed her, as if waiting for another mild fainting spell.

"I never cared much for Faithful John," Cory mused from his spot against the tree, lost in the tangled web of his thoughts. He barely seemed to notice her. "An old fool. That's what he seemed. But I think he had the right idea, after all."

Faithful John. Calla realized what Cory had been referencing before. His words took on new meaning in the dark forest, the boughs shrouded in mist. The last fairytale. The last page.

She'd read and reread those pages enough times to memorize the words there. A different line stood out to her now. It burned her tongue to speak it: "I will risk my life to win her."

"Like I said," Cory whispered. "The guy had the right idea."

"So that's it, then." she asked, bitter once more. "All of it. All of this. You did it for me?"

"For you. For us," he confirmed, morose.

Rachel. Why Rachel.

She didn't need to speak the words, not in this strange place. He seemed to hear her just fine.

His eyes were wide. Beseeching. "Calla."

I didn't kill—

She didn't want to hear the words. Ignoring the pain—and when had it become so cold again?—she stood and lunged for him once more, extending her hands in front of her, fingers hooked into deadly claws—

*     *     *     *     *

"Calla!"

She thrashed, her fingers digging into warm skin—

Warm.

Calla panted, blinking up at a familiar face. Her fingers were tangled in his shirt, her other hand digging into his wrist, which held her down with gentle force.

She sank back into a set of hard pillows, her head spinning. "Vincent."

Her death grip on his t-shirt softened. Disoriented, she glanced around the room, fearing what she would see. A misty forest? A long forgotten room?

But her surroundings were unfamiliar. The room itself was bright; warm sunlight slanted through a set of dusty blinds to her left. A painting of the sea, meant to inspire calm, hung on the opposite wall. But the door, peppered with neon flyers, disrupted the atmosphere, jarring her. In the upper right hand corner of the room, an ancient TV played reruns of Jeopardy, set to the lowest possible volume.

She analyzed the neon flyers. Bold letters screamed back at her.

ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS.

FLU SEASON? CALL YOUR DOCTOR TODAY.

FREE STD SCREENINGS TUESDAY, MARCH 11.

Her eyes drifted over to the counter. Piles of flowers dominated the space, spilling over into the sink. A bottle of Germ-X teetered on the edge, threatening to tumble onto the floor.

Hospital. Why am I at a hospital?

She tried to shift her weight. Wires attached to a white patch on the inside of her elbow prevented her from doing much and she grunted, frustrated.

"Hey, take it easy," Vincent murmured, readjusting his ball cap. "You can't get all worked up, okay?"

He eased down into a chair next to her bedside, as if resuming a position he'd been holding for some time. Two chairs just like it—one to his immediate right, the other positioned at the foot of the bed—sat like silent sentinels.

Empty. But she got the feeling they hadn't been empty for long.

"Wait. Crap." He bolted upright and dug into the pockets of his sweatpants, frowning with concern. "You're awake."

"Yes?" she croaked, grimacing. Awake. Was she? The thought that this, too, might be a dream plagued her. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and tried again. "And?"

He finally fished out his phone and held it up to his ear, triumphant. A moment passed and then a grin split his face as whoever was on the other end of the line picked up. "Hello? Rosalind? She's awake now."

Mother.

Calla withheld a groan. She gestured for him to hang up, but the wires tugged against her sore skin. She swore, glaring down at them.

"Excellent." Vincent beamed, hanging up the phone. He smirked down at her. "She'll be here in five minutes."

Calla opened her mouth, ready to snap out something smart—I should have pushed you over that bannister. But then she hesitated, the reality of who she was speaking to sinking in.

Play the part, Calla. Just like you've been doing your entire life.

She settled back into the bed with a sigh.

"Your mom's really nice," Vincent reassured her, pulling his chair closer. He reached out and took her hand, but not before he hesitated. It was slight. Barely noticeable.

Calla smiled, pretending not to notice.

What does he know? she wondered, running through her admittedly hazy memories of the night before. What does he suspect?

He smiled back at her. It didn't reach his eyes.

"What happened?" she whispered, laying the groundwork for the tale she would spin—for Vincent's sake. For her mother's sake. For the entire town's sake.

Over time, even Calla herself would come to believe the lie. That's how far she would bury the truth. No lie detector would ever be able to call her bluff.

She quickly ran through a hundred different scenarios, fumbling for a concrete plan of action. She could feel Vincent's reluctance, uncertainly seeping through his pores. If he doubted the events of that night, Calla would never be able to recover. The whispers, the rumors, would follow her indefinitely.

Calla could not afford whispers. She could not afford rumors.

Vincent hesitated, his eyes bouncing between her face and her hands, which had been heavily bandaged. He held them gingerly, as if afraid he might break her.

Or afraid she might break him.

"What do you remember?" he asked, evading her question with one of his own.

How do I convince him? she thought, frustrated. How do I convince them all?

She could go the route of desperation. Desperate times do, after all, call for desperate measures. But would that be enough to convince a town of her innocence? She'd done quite a bit of damage to Cory...

Vincent assessed her, waiting for an answer. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I..." Calla sighed, stalling for time. She closed her eyes. "I remember..."

What do you remember, Calla?

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Calla?"

She flinched, and the monitor analyzing her heartrate spiked. Rosalind stood just over the threshold to her room. She stared at her daughter, tears pooling her eyes.

Here we go.

Vincent jumped up and took off his ball cap, clearing his throat. Calla resisted the urge to roll her eyes as he mumbled something about grabbing a snack from the vending machine.

Thus abandoned, Calla spent the next fifteen minutes consoling her mother. For the most part, she stared at the painting across the room, watching the crests of the waves. Despite the horror she'd witnessed in the last twenty-four hours, she could not stand to stare at the hollow light in her mother's eyes, nor the pallor of her skin.

It reminded her too much of the empty room.

"Rosalind...oh, Calla. It's so good to see you awake."

Amelia Daniels peered around the edge of the door, a hesitant smile lighting up her beautiful face. She stepped into the room, showcasing a pair of dark blue scrubs.

"Amelia." Calla's mother stood, squeezing her hand one last time before grabbing her purse. "Good news? Please tell me it's good news."

Cooper's mother gave her a warm smile. "It's good news. Can you step out into the hall with me for a few minutes?"

"Of course." She glanced back. "You'll be alright?"

Calla opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted.

"I'll stay with her."

Cooper hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches, flushed from the effort. A thick cast encased his right ankle, weighing him down.

"Thank you." Her mother threw him a grateful smile, and together the two women departed, closing the door behind them with a final click.

Cooper stood at the foot of Calla's bed. For a moment, the two said nothing. They simply stared at one another, each taking the other in.

Cooper was the first to break the silence: "You look like shit."

Calla's eyes narrowed. She assessed the bandages around his right hand, the cast on his foot, and the stitches—covered with a thin bandage—on his left cheek.

"Well," she drawled, pinning him with a look. "I suppose I would...since I took a bullet for you, ungrateful asshole."

Cooper cleared his throat, glancing from one side of the room to the other, seemingly fascinated with the bland decor.

Calla rolled her eyes. And then she sighed. "How bad is it?"

He shot her a quick look. "What?"

"You said I look like shit. Are we talking a steaming pile, or...?"

"Steaming pile." He fumbled over to her bedside, struggling with the crutches. Cursing, he flung them onto the floor and hopped the rest of the way over, falling into one of the chairs. He didn't look at her when he said, "But a very nice steaming pile."

This time, she didn't hesitate. She didn't have to. "Yep. I definitely should have flung your ass over the bannister."

They sat in silence for a long moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Calla stared at him while he stared at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he asked, "Why?"

Calla's fingers twisted into the bedsheet. "Why what? I have a concussion, Coop. I don't have the brain capacity to deal with your riddles right now."

"Why did you do it?"

He was going to die, anyway.

The words he didn't say. The words he didn't have to say.

"Because I made a promise," she ground out. A half truth.

"Since when do you care about keeping your promises," Cooper muttered, calling her bluff.

Calla gritted her teeth.

And then he said the words: "He was going to die, Calla. I...I stabbed him in the back, and—"

"And you would have moped about it for the rest of your life," she snapped back, surprising them both.

Cooper stared at her, bewildered. She sighed, closing her eyes. The headache was beginning to return, and with a vengeance.

Calla contemplated just lying there. She could stay like this, she decided. Silent. Still. Her injuries would give her enough leeway to turn any uncomfortable questions away, at least for a time. But only for a time.

"I didn't know he was there," she murmured.

Her eyes were still closed, so she couldn't see Cooper's reaction. But she could hear the confusion in his voice when he asked, "Who?"

"Vincent." She spit the words out, knowing that if she didn't now, then she might bottle them inside for the rest of her life. "I didn't know he was there. At the house. I came there for you."

The silence between them stretched.

When Calla could no longer bear it, she opened her eyes. Cooper gazed down at her, uncertain.

"I don't understand," he said weakly. "Why come for me? And don't tell me any bullshit about promises, Calla. I know who you are. I know how you think. It doesn't make sense—"

"Exactly."

"I...what?" His speech came to a resounding halt. He deflated like a flat tire, the air leaving him in a rush.

"You know who I am," she explained softly, her eyes sliding to the door dividing them from the rest of the world. "You know how I think. You see me." She appraised him with a frown, disturbed at her own admission. "I don't want to be invisible, Coop."

She looked away, her eyes straying to the flowers sprouting from the counter. She hadn't noticed until now, but their scent lingered in the air, a cacophony of smells and colors, clashing together in horrible harmony.

"We have to talk about what happened," Cooper finally blurted out, diverting the conversation to safer waters. "You've been out cold for three days—"

"Bitch, what?" Calla whipped her head back around, glaring daggers at him. "Three days? Why am I just now hearing this?"

"Because you just now woke up?"

"God," she groaned. "Why are you punishing me?"

What punishment does my murderer deserve?

She pursed her lips, banishing the memory. Tracy was dead. Dead and gone.

I'll always be with you.

"Calla?" Cooper snapped his fingers in front of her nose and she swatted at him, pulling the wires in her arm. She grimaced.

"What? Yes, yes. We'll talk about what happened," she muttered, just as the doorhandle began to twist. "Later."

"Later," he agreed, a note of warning in his voice. He wasn't going to let her forget.

Perhaps that's what I should do, she mused, just as Vincent slipped into the room, grinning at them. He balanced almost a dozen snacks in his arms, each on the verge of tumbling to the floor. I should just...forget.

"I come bearing gifts," he proclaimed, sliding into the seat next to Cooper.

When he looked at her, she saw the same hesitance, but also a warmth. As if whatever suspicions he'd been harboring before were beginning to slip away, back into the dark corners of his mind where he would lock them away and forget they ever existed.

It was hard to linger on nightmares when you were surrounded by the waking world. The sunlight could be deceiving.

She could only hope it would be enough.