The final days of February fell over Greenwitch like a blanket, smothering the town in a layer of ice and silence.

Cooper thought he would be grateful for the quiet. But it wasn't the silence of a town at peace; it was the silence of a town whispering behind their hands. The silence of stolen glances and wild rumors.

The silence of a town gone mad with secrets.

Cooper shivered as he leaned against his apartment building, the rough brick picking at the back of his hoodie. He tapped his left crutch against the frozen concrete—tap tap tap—his eyes pinned on the little red Honda in the Parker's driveway, exhaust fumes curling into the air. From the passenger seat, he watched as Calla crawled out. She held onto her mom for support, who balanced a suitcase in one hand and her daughter in the other, the lower half of her face wrapped in a bright yellow scarf.

He watched them shuffle into the house and out of the cold, feeling like an intruder.

Go back inside, Cooper, the small voice inside his head urged. She's avoiding you...maybe you should let her. Curiosity killed the cat, remember?

Curiosity. Cooper wasn't so sure that's what this was—this need, this urge, to speak to her. He hadn't seen her in a week, not since that first afternoon in the hospital, back when they weren't sure if she would ever wake up at all.

Back when he wasn't sure if he wanted her to wake up.

It would have been easier, watching her slip away like that. So much easier. Cooper would no longer have to feel her dark eyes tracking him through the halls of Greenwitch High. He would be able to forget about that night in the mansion.

He could move on. It would take months—years, probably. But one day, Calla Parker would only be a distant memory.

Cooper tightened his grip on the crutches, glaring at the hard ground. A spot of green, no larger than a penny, pushed through a crack in the sidewalk, daring to brave the cold.

He drew in a deep breath. And then, very softly, he forced out the truth, speaking it into existence. "I guess I sort of need you, Calla Parker."

Fear propelled him forward, toward the barren field—toward Calla. Fear and anger.

He didn't want to go back inside. He didn't want to lock the doors and draw the curtains. The thought of shutting himself inside his empty apartment, with its empty rooms and empty bed and four empty walls, filled him with bone-crushing anxiety, the kind that burned his throat and left him breathless.

Before the chaos and his brush with death, Cooper's room had been his sanctuary. The posters on his wall. The pictures under his bed. He'd found peace there. Peace and rest.

He hadn't slept right in weeks, stress and fear driving him toward hellish nightmares and sleepless nights. Calla's stay in the hospital had only exacerbated that problem, rather than resolve it. And now, watching her disappear inside the house, he thought he knew why.

Sanctuary.

The word reverberated through his skull as Cooper maneuvered through the tall grass. He panted into the cold air, fighting for every step. By the time he reached her doorstep, sweat had gathered at the small of his back. He stared at the doorbell, trying to gather his thoughts.

He never got the chance.

The door opened, startling him. He rocked back on his crutches as a familiar set of black eyes stared out at him. His fear melted.

Cooper let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Calla quirked an eyebrow, unbothered as the cold air washed over her, despite her bare feet. An oversized sweatshirt covered her hands, leaving only the tips of her fingers exposed as she held open the door.

"Hey." He tapped his crutch against the ground. "Mind if I—"

"Ten minutes," she grumbled, stepping to the side. "You couldn't have given me ten minutes at home before barging in?"

He flushed, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn't barge. I knocked."

"Mom!" Calla called over her shoulder, startling him again. She closed the door behind him and locked the door. "Cooper's here!"

"Already?" Rosalind laughed. "Hey, Coop."

"Hey," he offered as they rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen. Rosalind produced a large black plot from one of the lower cabinets and smiled over her shoulder.

"We're making stew. Would you like some?"

Cooper glanced at Calla, searching for an answer.

"He would," she clarified. "Mind if we put on a movie?"

"Go ahead," Rosalind agreed, lost in the depths of the pantry.

Calla padded off into the living room and he followed, more sure of himself than he'd been in a long while. He felt at ease moving through her house. Strange, how quickly things had changed.

"Well?" she asked, grabbing the remote. She cranked up the volume on the TV, drowning out her mom's clattering in the kitchen, and lowered herself onto the couch. She moved slowly, carefully. Afraid to jostle her injuries.

"We need to talk," he said, leaning his crutches against the wall. He limped over to the far side of the couch and sat, wedging his cast between the cushions and the coffee table.

Calla rolled her eyes and moved closer, so that their thighs were almost touching. The smell of antiseptic and rotting flowers floated over him.

"Then talk," she said simply, her eyes drifting to the TV. The look on her face was one he knew well; it was the same expression she liked to use in class, when she would stare at the teacher but fiddle with something under the table, her attention perfectly split between the two tasks.

Cooper inhaled deeply. The curious smell—lemongrass and sweet decay, an odd combination she must have picked up from her week at the hospital—soothed him. He sank further into the cushions.

"You're ignoring me," he accused. Not the best start. But they were beyond pleasantries now.

"I've been in the hospital," she argued listlessly. He could practically feel her smothering an eye roll.

He frowned. "You could have called. I've been going crazy in that apartment—"

"Called?" She snorted and shot him a look. "With what phone?"

"Well." Cooper fought for a leg to stand on—figuratively speaking, though the cast certainly made it applicable to his current situation. "I still think—"

"See? There's your problem." Her eyes narrowed. "You're thinking. And leaving a wake of assumptions in your path."

He plunged ahead, disregarding the evil eye she pinned him with. "Have you even talked to the police yet?"

"Yes, Coop."

"And?"

"And?" she fired back. "I was shot. You were carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And Vincent didn't see a damn thing. The house was dark, and a serial killer tried to kill us—and that's exactly what I told them."

"Oh." Cooper sat back, contemplating. He wasn't surprised in the least. Of course she'd had an answer ready. "So...that's it?"

"For now." She returned her attention back to the television. "I'm sure there will be questions. Fuzzy details they'll want clarification on. It's been a week, and we're kids. We'll get a grace period."

"Oh," he said again, holding in a heavy sigh.

"Is that all?" she asked carefully, examining her flawless nails.

He'd seen those hands covered in blood. The thought did not nauseate him as it once had. And that, more than anything, concerned him.

"Did you mean it?" he asked in a whisper, staring at her profile. He absorbed the minute details of her face, right down to the freckles on her nose.

"Mean what?"

"Why you came back. Why you killed him."

I don't want to be invisible.

Calla turned away from him, digging her hands into the couch. The muscle in her jaw fluttered.

Her silence was answer enough.

He turned and stared ahead. "I guess I never thought you really would." He closed his eyes and let out a short bark of laughter. "I thought you'd just let me die."

"I thought about it."

"I know," he said, smiling to himself. As if her words were anything to smile about. "And I know we made a deal. But you didn't have to make good on that."

"Yes, Cooper. I did. And I don't expect you to understand," she hissed, suddenly irate. Her eyes flashed to the kitchen, but the sound of clanging dishes continued. "Why did you come here, anyway? You said it yourself. The deal is done. You can move on with your life."

The deal is done.

There was something final about those words—something absolute. He expected to feel a flood of relief. Happiness, even. He'd done what he'd set out to do.

And now he was free. Calla was setting him free.

I never thought we would make it this far, he realized, stunned. I didn't plan for this. For the after.

"Move on," he murmured, rolling the idea around on his tongue. He looked over his shoulder to glance into the kitchen. Rosalind worked over the sink, her back to them.

It's far too late for that, Calla. Don't you see? You've changed. I've changed.

And they would never be the same.

Instead of answering her question, he presented one of his own. A strategy she often used to her advantage. "You still have the knife, don't you?"

The question caught her off guard. She shot him a look—one he couldn't quite decipher. "What?"

"You kept the knife. The one you used to kill her."

He didn't have to elaborate. There could only be one her.

Calla's eyes turned hard. She stared at him and he stared right back, the two of them fighting a silent battle. Her hands dug into the cushions, pulling at the fibers. Cooper forced himself to remain relaxed, his hands lying limp in his lap.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Calla shrugged. "Yes. And what about it?"

She was happy. Watching that girl die, it filled something empty inside of her.

"Do you..." he hesitated. He probably should have swallowed his next words. He should have swallowed them and choked on them. But that Cooper—the one who would have choked on his words rather than brave the consequences of speaking them—had died that night, right alongside Cory. "You remember it now? Killing her."

"Yes." No hesitation. Her voice sliced through the air, cold and hard.

"And you enjoyed it?"

Silence. And then: "Does it matter?"

"It matters," he whispered. "It matters."

"Then yes," she said, emotionless. "I did."

The truth of it. The full, unfiltered truth.

Cooper dug his nails into his injured palm, the fragile skin throbbing through the gauze. The pain did nothing to distract him from the present moment. Nothing at all.

"Do you feel better now?" she asked softly. "Now that you know who I am?"

"I've always known who you are, Calla," he said, exhausted. He looked over at her, resigned. "Even when I didn't want to know. I just wanted to see if you would lie to me."

She paused, assessing him. Sporadic bursts of gunfire emanated from the television, but he didn't flinch. He didn't have a whole hell of a lot to fear anymore.

Calla Parker had killed the boogeyman. Who else was there to fear?

"What now?" she asked, something in her face shifting. Cooper realized the noise from the kitchen had quieted some and he turned, only to find that the room was empty. They were alone.

When he looked back, he saw Calla as she truly was. Her eyes burned like coals, seething with an intensity she reserved only for him. He couldn't help but smile.

I see you. And you see me.

It felt good to breathe again.

"What?" she asked, perturbed by his reaction.

He laughed, unable to help himself. "Nothing."

"Stop it," she warned, shoving a finger into his shoulder. "You're being weird."

"Okay, okay." He sighed and sank back into the cushions, feeling lighter than he had in ages. "Sorry. I guess I'm just...relieved."

"Relieved." She leaned over and poked the skin between his eyes, shoving herself into his personal space. "I just told you I'm a vindictive, remorseless murderer, and you're relieved."

"At least you're not a liar," he pointed out. "I hate liars. And Cory was one hell of a liar."

"Good to know where your moral compass lies," she drawled, settling back onto the other side of the couch, putting space between them. "Not really sure who you are or what you've done with Cooper Daniels, but you're entertaining, whoever you are. I'll give you that."

But you do know me, Calla Parker. And for now, that's enough.

"Riddle me one thing," he mused, staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh? Just one thing?" she teased dryly. "No more ponderings on the morality of my existence in this world?"

"Rachel."

"Excuse me?"

"Rachel," he said more slowly, her name burning on the tip of his tongue. He traced random patterns in the ceiling, finding faces where there were none. "I still don't understand. Why kill her? I understand the others. Jacob threatened you. And Jess was always at your throat. And me..."

You're no good for her. You make her weak.

Calla finished the thought for him. "You bring me down a peg."

"What?" he looked at her, startled.

She smirked over at him. "You think I didn't hear the tail-end of Cory's pretty little speech? Talk about drama."

"Well...yeah," he finished lamely, cheeks flushing. "The guy didn't like me much, I guess. And Vincent was obviously competition."

"Obviously," she repeated, her smile broadening.

"But Rachel." Cooper interrupted her before she could add anything else. "Cory..."

"What did he say?" Calla asked quietly, her voice simmering with restrained emotion.

Cooper sat up and shot her a warning look, as if to say please don't freak out. "He said he didn't kill her. I'm paraphrasing."

Calla leaned back against the armrest with a deep frown. "What did he say, exactly? No paraphrasing," she added.

"He said, and I quote," he emphasized, trying to impress upon her the importance of not shooting the messenger, "I didn't kill that stupid bitch."

Calla folded her arms, tucking her hands back into her sleeves. She considered Cooper from the opposite side of the couch, lounging back against the armrest imperiously. She stretched out her legs, her feet propped dangerously close to his thigh.

Cooper frowned down at her toes. Filthy.

"Stop staring at my feet."

"Then wash them."

"I just got back from the hospital and am now being forced to entertain my jackass neighbor. Haven't had the chance to shower yet."

Cooper sniffed but kept his silence.

"Anyway. Before I was so rudely interrupted." Calla's left foot began to shake. It took all of Cooper's willpower not to recoil. "I think...I think he was trying to tell me the same thing. To that effect, anyway." She paused. A strange smile curled her lips. "He lied. About owning pets."

Cooper blinked. The change in subject gave him a sense of whiplash. "I...come again?"

"Cory told me he had two cats. A dog. Even a guinea pig."

Cooper struggled to find words. "Do we need to take you back to the hospital?"

"He's a liar, Coop." Calla's eyes wandered up to the ceiling. "I didn't notice at the time. But that house of his? It felt cold and empty. No decor. No warmth. Like a cave. I never heard a dog. Never saw a cat. The place didn't smell very lived-in. He wanted to seem normal. So he fabricated a story about owning pets." She shrugged, as if this made perfect sense to her. "It's what I would have done. Animals put people at ease."

"And this..." Cooper still didn't follow how, exactly, they'd landed on the topic. "Is relevant...how?"

"Like I said," she murmured softly. "He's a liar. Liars lie."

Cooper shifted to the left as subtly as possible, trying to put space between his leg and her foot. "So. He killed Rachel. A mistake that he knew he needed to rectify to gain your approval."

She said nothing for a long time. The program they were watching went through two rounds of commercial breaks before she spoke again. "Maybe."

Cooper rubbed at his forehead with the pad of his thumb and forefinger. "It just feels so...unresolved."

Rachel. Tom Sahein. Astrid. Ryan. The drug ring and the gossip and the buried secrets. The little lingering loose ends nagged at him, a sinister whisper.

It's done, he thought, willing it to be true. It's over.

So why did he feel so on edge?

Calla's mind seemed to have wandered a similar path. "Death doesn't always make sense."

"So that's it?" He frowned at her. "Rachel's death. It's just one of those random, unexplained things?"

"The world will never know what really happened that night," she muttered, staring at the television. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

"The world may never know," he agreed. "But what about you? Can you live without knowing?"

Can I?

Her next words came after another, far more brief pause. "I think I can." Her eyes drifted back to his face. "For now."

I don't like the sound of that.

Cooper opened his mouth to say as much when the doorbell rang. They both turned and glanced into the kitchen, trying to make out the figure standing on the front porch.

"Calla?" a familiar voice called. "Coop? You in there?"

"Vincent," Cooper whispered, alarmed. He shot her a look. "Calla, he knows. I don't know what exactly, but..."

"I know," she said, agitated now. She stood with a heavy sigh. "Don't freak out. He thinks he knows. But it was dark in that damn house. And horrifying. And post traumatic stress disorder is totally a thing."

"We underestimated him once," Cooper warned, standing alongside her. He grabbed her wrist and she glared at him. A few months ago, that look might have sent him running. "He's smart, Calla. He's going to figure it out. One way or the other."

He's going to figure you out.

"What are you going to tell him?" she shot back, her dark eyes tracking his every movement.

"I don't know, Calla," he responded, frustrated. "If he asks? Maybe the truth, for once."

"You really think he wants to know the truth?"

Cooper opened his mouth, sure of his answer: yes. His best friend deserved to know the truth. Or at least a version of the truth. But now, faced with the prospect of answering Vincent's questions—questions that would inevitably circle back to Cooper's role in everything—he wasn't so sure.

"Tell him the truth," Calla continued slowly, "and you'll break him."

Cooper watched her walk into the kitchen and disappear around the corner. The door opened. Vincent's warm laugh floated into the living room.

You really think he wants to know the truth?

"—just a scratch." Vincent's voice grew louder as the sound of approaching footsteps spiked Cooper's heart into his throat. "You and Coop look a hell of a lot worse than I do."

"You really know how to woo a woman, you know that?"

Cooper plastered a smile on his face when Vincent walked around the corner. His friend's expression immediately brightened.

"There you are! Man, the gang. Back together again," he crowed, stalking over. He slung his arm over Cooper's shoulders and smirked down at him. "Keeping my girl company?"

"Oh, it's my girl now, is it?" Cooper asked, shooting Calla a sly smile.

"Well," Vincent backtracked, his face turning into a bright ball of flame. "I, uh...love this movie!" He unwound his arm from Cooper's shoulders and plopped down on the couch, pretending the other two didn't exist.

"Smooth," Cooper whispered. Calla scoffed and headed back into the kitchen. "Be right back. Mom's going to freak if she thinks she didn't cook enough food."

Vincent watched her go with a smile on his face—even as Cooper watched him, dread curling in the pit of his stomach.

"By the way, Coop. Sorry about not swinging by sooner." Vincent's voice shook Cooper from his thoughts. He blinked, trying to focus back in on the here and now. "Dad's been keeping me locked up. His ticket to the good life almost got ripped to shreds. Can't have that."

His tone was light, but Cooper could imagine the scene that had unfolded once Vincent's father brought him home from the hospital. He winced in sympathy.

"Nah. Don't worry about it." Cooper fell back into the nearby chair and shrugged. "We're alive, right?"

"We're alive," Vincent agreed. They shared a look, filled with equal parts exhaustion and relief. Cooper wasn't sure if it was just his overactive imagination, but he thought there might have been a shred of uncertainty lingering in the space between them, too. A question mark, begging to be answered.

The smell of lemony disinfectant filled the room. Calla appeared a second later and lowered herself down beside Vincent. He shifted, taking extreme care not to jostle her.

"What are we watching, boys?" she asked, snatching the remote from the coffee table before Vincent could grab it. "And none of that Star Wars crap."

"Cory should have killed us all," Cooper muttered. Calla threw him a look and Vincent laughed, tossing a pillow in his direction.

Cooper caught it with a grin, feeling oddly giddy. He knew there was a damn good chance Vincent would try to corner him after this—and his questions wouldn't be easy to answer. Maybe even impossible. He also knew there was an even better chance that Rachel's death would come back to bite him in the ass. He hadn't liked the look in Calla's eyes as she admitted defeat.

But none of that mattered. Not now. Not in this moment.

Because in this moment, he was safe. He was alive. They all were.

He hugged the pillow to his chest and sat back, staring out of the nearby window. The oak tree in the backyard shivered in the wind, its limbs bare, save for a handful of dead, withered leaves that still managed to cling on. He'd grown up beneath the branches of that tree. He'd spent hours playing there, tangled among the roots.

It symbolized simpler days. Happier days. And much, much darker days.

His childhood had died there, among those twisted roots. He'd lost a piece of himself when he'd found that cat. But he'd also discovered something else—a hidden truth about the girl next door.

He'd hated that truth for years. Had loathed the knowledge he'd been forced to carry. And now...

His eyes drifted back to the couch. Calla had molded herself to Vincent's side. Their bandaged hands were intertwined. Watching them, Cooper felt surprisingly content.

Calla's eyes flashed to Cooper's face. After a moment, she smiled.

Yes. This could be enough.

For now.