The Devil Inside

11: A Matter of Perspective

"Cooper Cornelius Daniels."

Cooper froze at the threshold of his bedroom, fear rooting him to the spot. He'd barely slept a wink last night. What little sleep he had managed had been plagued by terrifyingly realistic nightmares: in one, a faceless shadow cornered him in his car, wrapping a plastic cord around his throat; in another, he was running through the field outside, chasing after a cat with a knife in his hand.

But it was the third nightmare that had woken him abruptly, a scream caught in his throat: he'd been in his bedroom, standing almost exactly where he was right now, except his hands were slick with blood. Vincent was lying dead on the floor, his arm outstretched toward the window, as if he'd tried to escape. His throat was torn open. Calla had appeared in the doorway and sighed. "You've made a real mess of things, haven't you?"

Cooper shuddered. Dreams. They were just dreams.

His nerves were absolutely toast, to say the least. "Yeah?" he finally managed.

His mom pattered down the hall, a smoothie in one hand and her car keys in the other. "What's this I hear about you skipping class?"

He ratted me out. Cooper scowled. Sheriff Marks had always been a periphery figure in his life—a man he knew and trusted. So this? This was a low blow.

He sighed, half-hanging from the doorframe. "Sheriff Marks told you?"

"You bet he did." She raised an eyebrow, giving him her classic I dare you to take a tone with me look.

He did not dare. "I just ran to get an orientation packet from—"

She wasn't having any of his bullshit. "And that couldn't wait until the weekend?"

He averted his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't do it again," she warned, poking his shoulder before returning to the kitchen. "Ted's a good man. He's just looking after you. He's been good to us, you know."

Yeah, well. I wish he would look after me a little less. But instead, he said, "I know."

She gave him a long look over her shoulder, assessing his tone. "No, Coop. I don't think you do." She turned away, facing the sink. "Lasagna okay for dinner?"

He grasped at the change in subject with a little too much gusto. "Yes, please."

She gave him another look and rolled her eyes—had all been forgiven, then?—and he took that as his cue to leave. Grabbing his backpack, he planted a kiss on her cheek, just for good measure, and then half-ran out the door, blowing out a relieved breath once he was safely inside his car.

Ted's a good man. He's just looking out for you. He's been good to us, you know.

Cooper couldn't help but think about the picture Calla had found in the sheriff's office. He's been good to us, you know. What was that about? Sure, his mom had always been friendly with the man. But a baby picture shoved in the back of his desk? Cooper wasn't so sure about that. It made him...uncomfortable.

Shoving the thought aside—he really did have other, more important matters on his plate at the moment—he picked up his phone. There were many things out of his control. Calla's temper. Vincent's curiosity. Tom's insufferable nose for trouble.

But this? This was something he could control.

Steeling his nerves, he called the first number that popped up on his screen. It rang. And rang. And rang.

"Come on," he murmured, leg jittering. "Come on—"

"What?"

"Come—hey!" Cooper sat up straight, butterflies erupting in his stomach. "Hi. Uh. I just...wanted to check in." An awkward pause made his cheeks grow warm.