The Psychopath Next Door

4: Buried Secrets

Cooper stared at the shoebox under his bed.

Leave it be. Better yet, bury it, his conscience whispered. Bury it deep.

But Cooper knew better. In this town, secrets never stay buried for long.

He swiped at the shoebox, grabbing it before he could second guess himself. Heart pounding, Cooper flipped off the top, but not before sparing a glance over his shoulder. He could hear his mom across the hall, singing off-key to an old Michael Jackson tune in the shower. The busted radio warbled along with her, hanging on for dear life.

Just a quick peek, he told his conscience, which rolled a metaphorical eye.

He hadn't thought about the shoebox in months. But the damn thing had been calling to him ever since he'd woken up, causing him to pace a hole into his dingy carpet. He'd thought staring retrospectively out of his bedroom window might soothe his nerves. Instead, his eyes had strayed to the old oak tree edging the Parkers' backyard.

That damn tree.

Cooper sifted through the contents of the shoebox, his fingertips brushing over an assortment of photographs. His cheeks burned at the sight.

The subject in each photograph was the same. Fiery red hair. And those bone-chilling black eyes. Calla Parker haunted his nightmares, and only by shoving her in a box under his bed could he banish her from his thoughts—waking and sleeping.

"I know you killed her," he whispered, picking up a photo from three months back. Their first day of sophomore year. She stood in the driveway, her face blank as she stared back at him. Searching, but not seeing. "I know it."

These pictures proved nothing. A photograph couldn't capture her empty soul.

"You're going to be late, Coop!"

Cooper dropped the picture and scrambled to shove the cursed box back under his bed. He was just hurrying to his feet when his mom knocked on the door.

"Coop, babe."

"Coming." He ripped the door open and stood there, one hand on his backpack and the other running through his hair.

She gave him a skeptical look, a mint green towel wrapped around her head to hold her mass of wet curls. An equally green mask covered her face. "School. Now."

"School. Fine," he grumbled as he slouched down the hall.

"Don't give me that look," she called behind him. "Your education is more important than some half-rate small town gossip!"

Cooper gave a heavy sigh. "Yes, ma'am."

He shoved his free hand in his front pocket, feeling for his keys. Instead, his fingers brushed the edge of a polaroid—the one Sheriff Marks had given him the night of Tracy's murder. Cooper's resolve wavered for a moment. But only a moment.

She'll sting you one day...

Cooper had no idea what those words meant, or what book that page had been ripped from. But it was a start. And a start was all he really needed.

Steeling his resolve, Cooper headed out into the cool November morning, determined to solve the mystery—and with any luck, clear his good name.

*     *     *     *     *

"Amelia couldn't give you the day off?"

"Apparently, my education is too important." Cooper forced the words out through clenched teeth. He kept his head tucked in his locker, fearful of what would happen if he showed his face with the hallways so packed full of bodies.