CHAPTER 11
1099 Words
Calla Parker looked down at him, her annoying little smile plastered on her annoying
little face. How the hell had she snuck up on him? How could anyone move that
quietly?
"No photographs, please," she joked, holding out her hand as if to shield her face. "I
like my privacy."
He stared up at her, dumbfounded. He and Calla had been bio partners since the
start of the semester. Call it a cruel twist of fate. Or maybe some sort of cosmic
joke. Whatever it was, Cooper had been forced to interact with her on a weekly
basis for the first time since the seventh grade, though interaction felt too strong a
word. Once assignments were divvied out, he and Calla usually tackled things with
little to no communication.
He doubted they'd said so much as ten words to each other since August.
And yet here she was, staring down at him with a smile on her face that, to anyone
else, would look rather... friendly.
"No photographs," he repeated dumbly, at a loss for words. He didn't know what
else there was to say.
Weren't you the one who wanted to talk to her, Coop? So...talk.
His tongue felt like it weighed ten pounds.
Calla surprised him again by sitting directly to his left. "Glad that's settled."
He shifted in discomfort. Her shoulder nearly brushed his, setting him on edge.
And that was precisely the problem. She ignited every primal wire in his body, the
ones that raised the hair on the back of his neck and nudged his fight or flight
response. He couldn't say why. Not in so many words. But he knew.
There was something not quite right about her. Something off.
He could see it in her smile. Where most saw a happy, healthy
teenager, he saw an empty space. And maybe that was the problem. Calla Parker
was empty —and she was very good at pretending she wasn't.
It freaked Cooper out.
"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, her words slow and coated with a layer of
sarcasm so thick, he thought she might choke on it.
He wished she would.
Cooper blanched. Memories played out like a film reel in his head. Memories he'd
thought he'd buried.
Just like that, he was eight years old again. He could still see the sun sinking
beneath the treeline. Could still feel the brush of autumn air on his face.
He never should have gone over to that old oak tree.
But he had. In his young mind, Mr. Kitty had wandered off and
Calla, the good friend that she was, had found him and taken him in.
Bitter irony gripped him. Calla had found the cat. But that had been a very, very bad
thing.
Cooper had been aiming for the front door when something under the oak tree
caught his eye. A patch of black fur. Or at least, that's what it had looked like in the
low light of the fading sun. He'd gone over to investigate, confident that Mr. Kitty
had found a comfortable spot to nap away the day.
Eight-year-old Cooper didn't know what to make of the torn strips of fur. Not at
first. But then he'd seen the skin peeled away from Mr. Kitty's lips—
He blinked the memory away. Calla had one eyebrow raised, waiting for his
response.
Cat got your tongue?
He looked at her. She'd wound her vibrant red hair in a messy
bun today, though a few strands had fallen away to frame her face. But those dark eyes were what captured his attention, so dark
Cooper could have mistaken them for black. They looked cold.
"I know you killed my cat," he finally whispered.
She stared back at him. The look in her eyes grew darker. Colder.
"What happened the night that Tracy died?" she asked, taking him completely by
surprise.
He fumbled for words. "I...what?"
"What. Happened," she started, more slowly. "The night that Tracy died?"
It was the last question he'd expected from her. He couldn't help but laugh. "You're asking me? I should be asking you what happened."
Her eyes narrowed. He felt his heart skip a beat. "You know something. About her
murder."
It took immense willpower to ignore the urge to cover his front pocket. He'd been
carrying the sheriff's photo around for the last two weeks, afraid that if he left it at
home, even for a moment, it would vanish into thin air.
She'll sting you one day...
Cooper clenched his teeth. "Figure it out yourself."
Fury welled in her eyes. For a full second, he feared that she might lunge for his
throat, that she might grab it and throttle him, the way she'd probably throttled
Tracy before cutting her throat from ear to ear.
But then she smiled at him—a glowing, happy smile—and the fury vanished, leaving
him breathless.
"You should really forget about that stupid cat, Coop," she told him, as if they were
wrapping up a normal conversation about normal teenage drama. "This
obsession...it's really not healthy."
"Murdering people isn't healthy either."
The words were out before he could stop them. His expression mirrored the shock
on Calla's face.
And not just shock, but uncertainty. The fingers on her right hand twitched.
Cooper had hit a nerve.
Calla broke eye contact. Her attention drifted down the hall.
Cooper swallowed down his nerves. He became painfully aware that he and his
neighbor were very much alone.
She looked back at Cooper. He couldn't read her expression. Whatever she'd been
feeling moments before had been wiped away in the blink of an eye.
She smiled and his blood turned to ice. "Watch yourself, Cooper."
She left. Cooper waited until she turned the corner. Only then did he dare to breathe again.
If he'd had any reservations about her role in Tracy's death before, Cooper felt sure
of it now. Something about the look in her eyes. The easy way with which she
dismissed him. She'd always been able to send shivers down his spine, but to
imagine her committing cold-blooded murder...
He could barely fathom it.
She'll sting you one day. Oh, ever so gently. So you hardly ever feel it.
He stood, gathering his trash with one hand. The other he shoved in his pocket,
digging for the polaroid. He felt himself relax as he gripped it, holding onto it like a
lifeline.
'Til you fall dead.
Cooper shot one last look down the hall, hoping for—and dreading—Calla's return.
But she was gone.
- Writer
