The Devil Inside

27: When the Bell Tolls

Cooper didn't sleep well that night.

He kept revisiting the hospital in his dreams, with its bright halls and the pungent aroma of flowers hanging over everything. Well, almost everything. Their sickly sweet perfume couldn't quite mask the scent of antiseptic and—and something else. Something that reminded him of blood and rot and nasty, buried things.

He'd given up on sleep altogether by the time the sun winked over the horizon. And now he was here, hunched over a pot of shitty coffee at the Diner, his work apron tied clumsily around his waist. He stifled a yawn, brain foggy with fatigue.

"I'm waiting," a voice drawled over his shoulder.

Cooper took the pot off the burner and filled the ceramic mug on the counter. "Here," he muttered. Calla's eyes never wavered from the menu in her hands, just as Vincent's eyes never wavered long from her face. He sat beside her grudgingly, though the glances he shot her way every few seconds didn't go unnoticed. "Your beverage. Do you want any sugar or creamer—"

Her lip curled. "No."

I should've known. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Right. In that case, would you like a mortgage or maybe a 401k to go with that bitter ass coffee?"

She clucked her tongue. "Some of us have evolved beyond sippy cups and orange juice."

Beside her, Vincent hugged said cup of orange juice to his chest with a scowl.

"Why do you even bother with the menu, anyway?" Cooper poured a second cup of coffee and discarded the pot, reaching instead for the platter of assorted sweeteners by his elbow. "It never changes."

She set aside the menu and watched as he added a third shot of creamer to his cup. "I hate this foul place," she said, avoiding his question entirely.

The Diner bustled with its usual weekend activity, masking her sharp words. Cooper inhaled deeply—bacon, eggs, syrup. What wasn't to like? "The food really isn't that bad."

"Not this place." She waved a hand. "This entire wretched town. Graduation can't come soon enough."

"Wretched, is it?" Vincent asked, downing half of his orange juice in one go.

She avoided his eye, glaring instead at Cooper's cup of coffee, as if the copious amount of creamer and sugar he'd dumped into it personally offended her. He snatched it out of her line of sight and took a cautious sip. Blech. 

Vincent wouldn't be denied so easily. He cleared his throat, recapturing their attention. "Can anyone tell me why we're here at this ungodly hour?"

"It's nine o'clock," Cooper reminded him. "That isn't ungodly."

"It's a Saturday."

Calla clasped her hands against the countertop. "We're here to discuss certain...developments."

Vincent glanced between them. "Is this about Tom? Were you two able to talk to him?"

"Sort of." Cooper rubbed the back of his neck. "We couldn't say much, with the nurse in the room. The visit was a total bust."

Calla sat back and sipped her coffee, contemplative. "That's not exactly true."

He shot her a dubious look, hand frozen against the back of his neck. "Uh. It isn't?" He shuffled through his memories, searching for some clue he might've missed, to no avail. 

"Tom gave me a name when you left the room." She smiled. He couldn't decipher the gleam in her eyes. "The name."

Cooper and Vincent shared a startled look. "He remembers?" Vincent hissed.