The Psychopath Next Door

15: Playing With Fire

Ryan Kane gazed at Cooper, eyes wide with alarm.

Alarm and annoyance.

Cooper heaved a sigh and tapped the screen, scrolling through the rest of the photographs he'd managed to snap Friday night—before his date had been found murdered. Forgotten at the party, just like her cousin before her.

He stopped at a picture of Gareth and Astrid, locked in what could only be a heated argument. Cooper frowned at the red flush across Gareth's cheeks. Astrid stared resolutely at his chest, her jaw stiff.

He turned off the camera. He'd seen enough of that night to last a lifetime.

Cooper's eyes slid to the end of his twin bed. Nestled between his feet were his phone—an unsent text to Calla staring back at him—and a crumpled piece of paper.

He still had no idea why he'd kept that page. The thing had all but guaranteed his death, the sixth victim in what was shaping up to be a brutal massacre. He should want nothing to do with it. How many times had he balled it in his fist, only to smooth it out again, panicked that he'd damaged the evidence somehow? How many times had he tossed it in the trash, once and for all...only to fish it out, too frightened to throw it away?

Terrified to keep it. Terrified to lose it.

Cooper sat up. He grabbed the page and stuffed it in the front pocket of his sweatpants. Taking his phone, he deleted the message he'd typed. He tried to find new words. Better words. Something profound but ambiguous—he couldn't send Calla damning texts that would come back to bite them.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

Just do it. Send it, Coop. She has to crawl out of her hole at some point.

Procrastinating, he leaned across the bed and peered out of his miniscule window. Calla's house sat a hundred yards away. Quiet. Unsuspecting.

He sighed and deleted the message.

Rachel's dead. Calla's AWOL. And the killer is still at large.

A miracle. He'd need a miracle to survive this.

His eyes flashed back to the window.

Or a psychopath.

Restless, Cooper rolled out of bed and threw on a hoodie. He headed into the living room, determined to move, to be productive. But he couldn't stop thinking about that night. The taste of alcohol burning down his throat. The almost giddy high he'd felt as he'd danced, his hands on Rachel's waist. And then later, the way her lips felt against his. A stolen kiss.

And now she was...gone. Whatever future he'd had with Rachel had died with her. He still didn't know how to feel. Maybe he'd never figure it out.

He stepped out into an empty living room; he'd forgotten his mom was pulling a double at work. More dejected than before, when he'd been hoping for a shred of companionship, he plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. A replay of the sheriff's earlier announcement was on, commentary from reporters scrolling by below. A headline popped up on the screen, filling Cooper with a sense of foreboding.

GREENWITCH SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE

He raked a hand through his hair, finding comfort in the familiar gesture. He couldn't watch the news all day. His life had become depressing enough without the constant reminder of death and despair. So he fished his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his search history, clicking on the first link. A generic, softback copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales popped up. Only $15.99. A steal.