The Devil Inside

13: Déjà Vu

Two years.

Cooper's fingertips skimmed over the glossy photographs spread out across his bedroom floor. Familiar faces stared back at him. Ryan at the winter gala, his eyes wide with surprise and annoyance. Vincent sitting on the hood of Cooper's Mustang, a broad smile on his face. Tom frowning down at his camera—looking at pictures of his own, perhaps.

And Calla. Sitting under the oak tree. Standing in her driveway. Glaring at him in the hallway.

Cooper's collection had grown steadily over the years. Many of these photographs were innocent—shots he'd collected for yearbook and had chosen to safeguard, a reel of memories that he could return to whenever he chose. But a select few had been taken as evidence. Each one was a dark reminder of the fate he had so narrowly escaped two years ago.

Two years...

The shoebox he kept stowed under his bed had seen better days. The corners had begun to tear, the lid beaten and bent beyond repair. Not for the first time, he thought, it's time to let this go.

He gathered up the photographs with a sigh. He'd just placed the last one in the box when the doorbell rang.

"Honey?" his mom called from the bathroom across the hall.

"On it," he called back, sighing as he hauled himself to his feet. He kicked the shoebox toward his bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, dragging himself down the hall. The doorbell rang again.

"Coming," he said. He opened the door, wincing at the cold air that cut at his bare legs.

Calla's red hair drew his eye first. "Hey." He blinked in surprise. Vincent stood at her side, his shoulders slightly hunched, fingers worrying at the strap of his athletic bag. "What's—"

The question died in his throat.

Cooper stepped aside to let them in. Vincent stared at the floor, his eyebrows bunched together. A nasty split ran down his bottom lip. Bruises ringed his jaw and hovered beneath his eyes, as if someone had taken a good crack at his nose.

"Who?" Cooper asked bluntly.

Vincent shrugged. And really, that was answer enough. Calla's expression remained carefully, dangerously, neutral.

Cooper nodded and headed for the bathroom. Behind him, he heard someone banging around in the kitchen, looking for a snack.

"Mom?" He tapped his knuckles on the wall, announcing his presence. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

She poked her head out into the hall. Fully dressed. Thank God. "Hmm?"

Cooper folded his arms. "Vincent needs to stay here for a while."

She frowned. She looked exhausted, her eyes still heavy with sleep despite the shower. He hadn't seen her since before dinner last night. She'd left to "run errands", supposedly—though he wasn't sure what errands could have kept her out past midnight. "What's wrong?"

He shrugged. Vincent would tell that story when he was ready.

Pursing her lips, she stepped out into the hall. "Is he alright?"

"I think so."

She slipped past him, squeezing his shoulder as she did so. He followed her into the kitchen, hanging back a respectful distance.

His mom didn't say a word as she approached Vincent, who stood at the sink, a pack of ice against his jaw. She placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head toward the light. The bruises stood out in stark relief against his skin.