The Psychopath Next Door

37: We All Fall Down

Cooper had never seen anything quite like it. Quite like her.

He imagined if you took the base of who someone was—if you whittled down deep, past the empathy, and the love, and the weight of regret—you would get something a hell of a lot like Calla Parker. Raw. Untethered.

A force of nature.

From only a few paces down the hall, Cooper watched as she crushed Cory's windpipe between her fingers.

Kill him. Please, just kill him and be done with it.

"What's happening?" Vincent asked from the other side of the door. A gurgling scream pierced the air, and he heard an intake of breath. "Cooper, what the hell is—"

"Shut up!" Cooper hissed, wriggling his left foot free. Vincent had managed to pry the door open enough that the two thought he might be able to squeeze his way out. Emphasis on squeeze.

A little more, he thought, desperate. He braced his hands against the edge of the door and hissed. The piece of glass he'd used to try and break through the zip tie binding his wrists had done a number of him.

All that work. All that pain—and for not a damn thing. The stubborn plastic had refused to give when he and Vincent attempted to free themselves, leaving both boys with gouges on their palms deep enough to scar.

Girls like scars, right? Vincent had joked half-heartedly, his face white as a sheet as he stared down at his bound—and now bloody—hands.

Cooper hadn't had the heart to laugh. And he certainly wasn't laughing now, stuck as he was between a metaphorical rock and a hard place.

Definitely a hard place, he thought, his head swimming as he gave another heave, popping his left leg free. How much blood had he lost, anyway? His stomach lurched as he glanced at his mangled hands spread along the edge of the door.

Don't look. Just don't lo—

He flinched as a loud crack filled the air. His eyes flashed down the hall, analyzing the dark shapes tangled on the floor. He prayed that Cory hadn't noticed him.

He hadn't. His entire focus was on the girl beneath him—the girl who was suddenly lying very, very still.

"Calla!" Cooper croaked. His ribs screamed in protest as he redoubled his efforts to break free. One door down, Cory pushed himself to his feet, his hands clutching his throat.

"What? What's wrong? Calla!" Vincent shouted, his voice breaking. He couldn't see her, not by a long shot. But he could hear the panic in Cooper's voice, and apparently, that was enough. "Where is she? What's happening?"

Cooper stared at the slim figure lying on the floor. His mouth went dry.

"Coop?" Vincent rasped, his fingers grasping at the parts of Cooper still stuck on the other side of the door. "Calla...what...where—"

Cooper didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. "She's fine," he muttered instead, pulling his left shoulder free of the door. "She's fine. She's fine, okay?"

Say it one more time, Coop. Maybe then you'll believe it.

"You're fine," he whispered, his voice cracking on the last syllable. His throat tightened and he glared over at the spot where she'd collapsed. "You have to be fine. You owe me, you bitch. You promised."

Cory slumped against the nearby wall, his head bowed. He hadn't turned in Cooper's direction. Whatever Calla had done to him—because Cooper was confident that the scream from before had been his—had left him disoriented.