CHAPTER 60
1076 Words
Cooper frowned down at his psych assignment. Saturdays were supposed to be for
the boys. Not for the study of psychopathology.
A position that Vincent fervently defended. "It's the weekend. Save the homework for
tomorrow. Let's go see a movie or something."
Vincent's good mood could only mean that his conversation with Calla had gone
well. Very well. Cooper sighed. "Can't."
"Can. You just won't ."
Cooper didn't know how to tell Vincent why he didn't want to go see a movie. Best
not to let it slip that the object of his affection had planned a date with another guy.
Cooper didn't imagine Vincent would be very forgiving of a second transgression.
"Come over," he said instead, tapping his pen against the cramped desk he and his
mom had managed to shove in the corner of his room. "Mom's making dinner."
"Lasagna?" Vincent asked hopefully. Cooper almost laughed.
"Yeah. Sure. She'll make it if you're coming."
"Oh, I'm so there."
"No rush..." A crashing sound made him jump. "What was that?"
"I'm trying to get my s**t together. Hold on. Dad's—"
Static from the other end of the line. Cooper felt an unexpected rush of anxiety send
his heartbeat into overdrive. Vincent's faint, defeated voice bolstered his doubt:
"Gotta go. Call you back later."
The call ended. Cooper put the phone down slowly, scowling at the blank screen.
"Mom!" he called, darting to his door. He leaned his head out into the hall.
His mom looked up from the couch. She'd pulled their rattiest blanket up to her
chin, her fair hair thrown into a messy bun. She looked far younger than her years,
her eyes wide and startled. "What?"
"Vincent's coming over." He paused to emphasize his next statement. "He got
caught up with his dad."
Her scowl mirrored the one he wore. The silence stretched between them, thick
with anticipation. Finally, she nodded.
Cooper ducked back into his room, but not before he caught her dark mutter: "Let
that boy come over with a single mark on him...that'll be the day."
Yes. That would be the day. Cooper felt a jolt of dark pleasure as he thought about
his neighbor. If Vincent ever needed a place to stay, Cooper's door would always be
open. But if the threat became more serious, more immediate, he had another card
up his sleeve.
A deadly card.
She's not your secret assassin, Coop. She's a vindictive murderer. And she'll turn
around and bite you just as quickly as she would a total stranger.
Still. A guy could dream.
Cooper spent the next hour bent over his desk, brows furrowed as he read through
one article after the next, reading abstracts on scientific studies that took a closer
look at a variety of mental disorders. Anxiety. Depression. Schizophrenia. ADHD.
Bipolar disorders. PTSD. And, toward the bottom of the list of topics that Mr.
Prichard had typed out, something known as dissociative amnesia.
A temporary loss of memory, a quick search explained. A result of dissociation or
trauma.
The phrase tickled the back of his brain. He kept circling back around to the term,
even once he reached the end of his assignment, taking care to explain which topics
had piqued his interest and why.
A temporary loss of memory...
My memory of that night is a bit faulty.
He realized why the term seemed familiar. Calla. Of course his psych assignment
tied back to his neighbor in some strange, convoluted way. Cooper's pen hovered
over the assignment as he considered the possibility that dissociative amnesia
could be what Calla suffered from.
Trauma. Is that what we're calling cold-blooded murder these days?
Cooper snorted and shoved his notebook back in his backpack. He'd settled on
three topics—obsessive compulsive disorder, of course, and also dissociative
amnesia and antisocial personality disorder, because apparently he wanted to delve
into Calla's brain as thoroughly as possible—and now had nothing left to do.
Nothing except wait and wonder.
Where are you, Vincent...
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Cooper's mom beat him to the door, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Vincent took up the entire doorframe and then some, his hands shoved in the
pockets of a black Cowboys hoodie. His eyes were downcast, his shoulders
hunched under the weight of his athletic bag—though the weight had never bothered
him before.
Cooper's mom enveloped Vincent in a hug, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her
head barely brushed his collarbone. He didn't move, not at first. But after a few
seconds he relented, melting into her embrace. He buried his face in her hair.
Cooper retreated to the kitchen, pretending not to notice.
"Let's whip up some lasagna," his mom announced, coming up behind Cooper and
ruffling his hair.
Vincent had made himself at home on the couch. He smiled at the thought of a
warm meal.
"You done with your homework?" he asked Cooper, hope tinging his words.
"As a matter of fact, yes." He immediately went for his gaming system. "World's
End?"
" Yes. " Vincent rubbed his hands together. Cooper concealed an eye roll.
"Don't look so excited. You're garbage."
Vincent gave him an affronted look. It quickly melted into a sheepish grin. They both
knew and accepted the fact that he couldn't play video games to save his life,
courtesy of being an athletic god in real life. He didn't have the time to spare to get
any good; his dad's militant reign of terror over his schedule ensured that.
Practice, practice, and—wait for it—practice. Cooper may have envied Vincent his
physique, but his life? Not a chance. The thought gave Cooper pause, a wave of pity
threatening to spoil the moment.
He had his mom. Vincent had no one; they both knew his dad didn't count.
"Speaking of garbage," Vincent started brightly. Something about his cheery tone
seemed forced. "Guess who texted me today?"
"Uh. Me?"
"Use your big boy brain, Coop."
"Fine." He considered. "Astrid?"
Vincent crossed his arms, his controller forgotten on the coffee table. "How'd you
guess?"
"'Cause she's been stringing you along for months, so why stop now?"
Vincent considered this and then nodded. "Fair." He held up a finger. "But this was
different. She's acting like an actual crazy person now."
Their eyes slid to the kitchen. Cooper's mom popped a baking dish in the oven,
oblivious to their conversation.
- Writer
