The Devil Inside

10: Play Stupid Games

Stupid. Stupid. This is so, so stupid.

Cooper kept glancing at his rearview mirror, expecting to see blue lights. Which was...ridiculous. Skipping class wasn't exactly a crime. And he was eighteen, for crying out loud. What could the school administration do?

They could call your mother.

Which...yeah. That would be pretty bad. Cooper shifted in his seat and inched his foot down on the gas, encouraging the speedometer to wiggle over forty.

The last four days had been absolute hell. For once, his world wasn't completely falling to pieces—and yet, he'd never felt more alone. Venus still wasn't speaking to him. Calla had gone radio silent. And Vincent was...complicated. Cooper had managed to avoid him that afternoon at the Diner, but things had changed between them. Even the simplest conversations with his best friend now exhausted him, as if he were navigating a minefield.

At any moment, he might take a wrong turn and blow to smithereens.

And then there was the case file. The forensic pathology report had confirmed their theory about the drugs, but there just wasn't much else for them to go on. Cooper had hoped they might be able to find information about those missing pictures, but the witness and evidentiary reports were a bust. The police hadn't found a thing on Tom Sahein's camera the night of Tracy Smith's murder. Not one picture.

Sure, that had been a huge red flag, but what did it prove? That Tom had been too distracted at the party to take his job seriously? Cooper knew otherwise. Tom thought he had something to do with those missing pictures. Or at least, he suspected as much.

Cooper and Calla had parsed through those pages until their eyes were bloodshot, but it was no use. They'd hit a dead end.

Cooper had driven himself insane, lying in bed for hours on end, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how it all fit together. The missing pictures. The fairytale book. The death notes. He couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. A well-laid plan had been ruined. And somehow, Rachel had been caught in the crossfires.

Rachel. Cooper tried not to think about her. Tried, and failed. She'd been on his mind more than usual lately. Unsurprising, given what he'd been up to these last few weeks. But it was still unnerving.

The Mustang's engine began to whine. Cooper rubbed the steering wheel nervously, murmuring words of encouragement under his breath—as if he could keep the old girl running through sheer willpower alone. The engine sputtered in protest and then quieted to a steady rumble. He blew out a breath of relief.

"Just a little further," he promised, patting the leather seats. He'd made it this far, hadn't he? He couldn't turn back now. Not when they were so close to the truth...

Who killed Rachel Smith?

Cooper's grip on the wheel tightened. Anger ignited in his chest, hot and unfamiliar. He'd never been the vengeful type. But reading through the case file had made him realize just how furious he was. An innocent girl had died. How was that fair? How was that right?

It's not fair. It's not right. Rachel deserved better than that. Someone has to be held responsible...

Unease stirred in his gut. He knew who was responsible—and it wasn't Cory or Astrid or anyone else.

Calla Parker was to blame.

For all her righteous anger, she had been the one who set everything in motion by killing Tracy Smith in cold blood. Rachel was just collateral damage. Cooper had always known this, had always accepted it. But their fates were too entangled to risk throwing down the gauntlet now. No. He had to set his sights on someone else.