The Devil Inside

20: Like Father, Like Son

Calla ran until it hurt.

She'd been running for what felt like hours—around the school, over to the town square, and even through a few residential areas she knew well. Concentrating on her breath and the burning in her lungs gave her fresh perspective, silencing the dark voice in her head that had grown steadily louder day by day.

Kill them. Kill them kill them kill them kill them.

She wasn't even sure who she wanted to kill. Stephanie. Astrid. Tom. Mike and Blake and Gareth and Ryan. There were so many delightful options.

And then there was Vincent.

You aren't going to hurt him. I don't care what it costs.

Cooper had meant every word. Calla knew that with absolute certainty, even in her dreams. There'd been a time when she might've been able to twist his fear to her advantage, but not anymore. He would go to the ends of the earth to protect his childhood friend—even if it meant their undoing.

Calla loathed him for it.

Cooper's threat notwithstanding, she wasn't sure what she would do if push came to shove. Her secret was out. Vincent knew the truth. If he chose to weaponize that information, he could very well ruin her life. He'd become a threat. A liability.

Calla had killed for less. But could she kill him?

She didn't have an answer. And she hated herself for it, almost as much as she hated everyone else.

Calla stopped abruptly, gasping for air. She'd somehow ended up on the outskirts of town. How many miles had she run? Five? More?

She braced her hands on her hips, savoring the ice in her lungs. She'd come out here to think, not to agonize over impossible scenarios. "Get it together," she panted, reaching up to fix her ponytail.

Once she'd caught her breath, she fished out her phone from the pocket of her windbreaker. She'd left the house this morning with an idea. It'd been lingering in her periphery for days now, half-formed and desperate. And now it was time to put it to the test.

She dialed a number and waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally, on the seventh and final ring, a breathless voice answered. "Calla?"

"Hey, Steph."

"What time are you coming over tomorrow?"

Typical Stephanie, rushing right into the thick of things without any preamble whatsoever. "I was thinking six?"

"Perfect. I'll need help setting everything up. Do you think you could grab a pack of red solo cups on the way over? Or maybe two."

Stephanie paused to take a breath. Calla leapt at the opportunity. "Steph," she broke in. "I need to ask you something."

"And I—oh. What is it?" Stephanie asked, suddenly attentive—like a bloodhound catching a scent in the air.

"Tom Sahein." Calla paused, still somewhat out of breath from her run. "He still lives over in Old Grovewood. Right?"

"Yes." Stephanie said it without hesitation. "217 Old Grovewood. Why?"

Calla turned to stare at the labyrinth-like subdivision across the road. Piled along the roadside was a wall of smooth rocks. And stenciled on those rocks was a name: Old Grovewood.

The idea she'd been nurturing over the past two hours solidified in her mind, like an ember finally bursting to flame.

"I was just passing by," she said at last, smiling to herself. "Anyway. You said something about solo cups?"