The Devil Inside

23: It's Complicated

Calla took a swig of lukewarm beer, grimacing at the taste. At least it was better than the punch Stephanie had concocted.

She pulled out her phone and pretended to scroll through social media, even as her attention drifted to the couple standing awkwardly in the corner. Gareth had a beer superglued to his lips—his fifth so far. Astrid was pressed firmly against his side, though she looked less than enthused to be there. She kept glancing at her phone, as if counting down the minutes until she could leave.

For once, they were in agreement on something.

Calla's focus drifted to the kitchen; she had a pretty good vantage point from her spot by the windows, pressed up against the side of an overlarge armchair. Stephanie's house was a far cry from the grandeur of the Smith mansion, and it wasn't quite as ostentatious as the Sneider residence. But the modest two-story home felt grand, in its own way. Calla supposed that was largely due to Stephanie's meticulous touch. Electric candles gleamed on every surface; pillows were artfully arranged on a cream-colored settee; even the deck out back had been attended to, with twinkle lights woven throughout the rails and the trees overhead.

While a few partygoers had wandered out on said deck—clustered in groups beneath the heaters Stephanie had rented for the occasion—most of the crowd preferred the makeshift dance floor in the living room. Gareth and Astrid were the exception, along with a group of juniors gathered around the fireplace in the study, just out of sight. And of course, standing next to the massive crystalline bowl of punch, were the twins.

They were bickering about something. Calla couldn't discern a word of what they were saying over the music, but whatever it was, it'd gotten Blake well and truly fired up. He kept shaking his head angrily, his brows drawn low as his brother leaned in, speaking in hushed, earnest tones.

From outside, Calla heard the sound of laughter. Despite everything, life in Greenwitch continued as it always had. Something about it made her feel almost normal. If these people could move on, could laugh, then surely she couldn't be blamed for doing the same?

The music ramped up just as the lights dimmed. The flickering lights of the electric candles did little to illuminate the faces of the crowd, and in the darkness, chaos thrived. The dancing intensified. The liquor flowed more freely. Calla even spotted a few curious exchanges—a flash of money, a bag of white powder.

Ryan Kane watched it unfold from the sidelines, his expression impassive. He had yet to join in on the debauchery. Perhaps he preferred the pleasure of his own company to that of the townies he'd long left behind.

Come on. She finished off her beer, eyes trained on the twins. Wrap it up, you two. I've got a job that needs doing.

She was just about to take matters into her own hands when a commotion bubbled up from the swarm of bodies gathered in the living room. Calla desperately wanted to investigate just what the fuss was about, but then Mike clapped his twin on the shoulder and disappeared into the wall of curious onlookers, granting her the opening she'd been waiting for.

Calla didn't hesitate, cutting a path through the kitchen—and if she noticed the rack of knives gleaming by the stove, so what?

Old habits die hard.

She was at Blake's side in an instant, hooking her arm around his elbow. "We need to talk."

He frowned down at her, perplexed. "Calla? What—"

The music cut off abruptly. Calla gritted her teeth, but whatever the hell was happening in the living room would have to wait. "I know about your...situation with Stephanie," she said, keeping her voice low.