The Devil Inside

19: The Devil You Know

You're both insane.

Cooper twisted the shower handle as far to the left as it would go, turning the lukewarm water scalding. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, letting the water pummel his skin, steam clouding the air and infiltrating his lungs.

Insanity. He supposed that was as good a word as any for the convoluted mess his life had become.

Unable to withstand the hot water any longer, Cooper cut off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He half-expected to hear the sound of his mom in the kitchen, but then he remembered she'd already left for her shift. He sighed.

The apartment felt entirely too empty without her here.

Cooper towel dried his hair and half-heartedly dressed himself. His phone buzzed, but he ignored it. He didn't have to check to know it was Calla, no doubt wondering where the hell he was.

Shrugging on a hoodie, he grabbed the gift bag waiting for him on the dining room table and trooped out into the cold world, locking the door behind him for good measure. He'd lived through too much shit to buy into the small town we-don't-lock-our-doors-around-here mantra.

You never know when a psychopath's going to come strolling into your house.

Despite the cold and the endless cover of smooth grey clouds, it was a beautiful day. Still and quiet. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

Clutching the gift bag in one hand, Cooper waded through the field of overgrown grass—brittle and stiff now that winter had settled in—and forged a path to the little white farmhouse down the road. Calla was already waiting for him, of course. Even at a distance he could see her, perched on the roots of that old oak tree, a bright red package balanced across her knees.

Cooper shivered as he joined her. She'd braided her hair, something he'd never seen her do before. She tossed it over her shoulder as he settled in, his shoulder bumping her knee and jostling the edge of the package she held.

He presented the bag he'd carried over with a strained smile. "Happy birthday."

The words sounded dull even to his ears.

"Eighteen at last," she intoned joylessly, taking the proffered gift. She nudged the edge of the red package into his shoulder. "Here. Merry Christmas."

"Christmas isn't for a few days," he mumbled, flustered. But he took the package anyway. It was larger than he'd anticipated, a perfect square. He frowned, shaking it slightly.

"Just open it," Calla said, exasperated.

He glanced over his shoulder. "You first, birthday girl."

Rolling her eyes, she tore out the shiny silver paper his mom had painstakingly arranged late last night. Amelia had insisted he "do the thing right". She'd even stuck a little bow on the side. Calla quirked an amused brow at the sight.

"I didn't realize you were such an artist," she demurred, peering inside the bag.

Her curiosity brought a smirk to his face. Calla might have been lacking in many emotional departments—empathy, for one—but she'd never been able to resist a good mystery.

After a quick inspection, she pulled out the leatherbound photo album he'd picked out last week. Wordlessly, she began flipping through the pages. Her expression remained carefully neutral as she sifted through photograph after photograph.

Rachel. Vincent. Cooper. Ryan. Stephanie. A dozen faces peered back from those photographs—faces he'd captured and compiled over the years.

Slowly, her eyes drifted upward. Understanding dawned. "All of them?"