“So?”
“It’s good. I’m sure I’ll sleep great,” Violet told her instead.
Her mom scoffed, but her voice was determined. “Not that. School. How was it?”
“Oh,” Violet breathed. “Good.” But she knew what her mom really wanted to hear, so she said it. “It was good to be back.”
She saw the relief—the anxiety her mother had been shouldering—melt away in an instant with that simple statement.
“Rafe was there,” Violet added, trying to make it sound like an afterthought. Like something that didn’t really matter to her one way or the other. “He and Gemma are going to White River now.” She shrugged nonchalantly, hoping she was convincing.
She still felt weird talking about them with her mom. It was bad enough that Violet had attracted the attention of a serial killer, but her mom had wanted her to quit the Center even before then.
Afterward, though, her mom’s opinion had changed.
Afterward, her mom had left the choice up to Violet. All because it had been people from the Center who’d led the police to where the killer had been holding Violet. All because, in the end, they’d been the ones to find her.
Her mom lowered her cup, settling it on top of her lap as she eyed Violet, that burden returning. “Really? They’re at your school? As students?”
Violet nodded, wishing she couldn’t hear the air of disapproval in her mother’s words, echoing her own doubts.
“And you don’t find that . . . odd?”
She shrugged again, repeating the word she’d said far too many times in the past few months. “It’s fine.” It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s just fine. She was starting to hate that word.
“What about Jay? What did he think about Rafe being there?”
This time it was Violet’s turn to scoff, to make light of the matter, but she couldn’t manage to make it as believable as she’d wanted. Maybe because she didn’t believe it herself. “Why would he care?” she asked, taking a too-large gulp from her cup and wishing there was something stronger than just tea in there. She watched her mom’s eyebrows inch up meaningfully. “Mom,” she complained as if her mother had actually accused her of something. “We’re just friends. Jay knows that.”
But she could see her mom wasn’t buying it.
She waited for her mom to say something else. But she didn’t, and they just sat there, silently assessing what the other might be thinking.
Finally Violet got up to go to her room. As she set her teacup down, her mom perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, as if it were a natural transition in their awkward conversation. Her face twisted into a delighted grin. “I left something for you. On your bed.”
Cocking her head suspiciously, Violet asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise . . .” her mom started, but Violet knew she would. Her mom hated keeping secrets almost as much as Violet hated surprises. “But I found a box of Grandma Louise’s things in the attic this afternoon. I thought you might want to look through it.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Violet’s chest squeezed. She hadn’t thought of her grandmother in months . . . far, far too long. She wished she’d had more time with her grandmother before she’d died, longer to get to know her, to swap stories about their shared ability, the one Violet had inherited from her.
Suddenly grateful for the change in atmosphere, and subject, Violet sighed, “Thanks, Mom.”
Her mom shrugged, but Violet could see how pleased she was with herself. And suddenly Violet couldn’t wait to get to her room.
Staring into the musty-smelling box, Violet frowned. She glanced at all the knickknacks, a box filled with treasures that looked a lot like junk. Things that her grandmother had once held dear enough to save, to store away.
She reached in reverently, her fingers brushing over a collection that included a book with a tattered cover, its binding nearly threadbare; a shoebox filled with photos and newspaper clippings and letters; a perfume bottle, mostly empty; and a small ivory box with delicate carvings.
Violet reached for the carved box and drew it out, holding her breath as she ran her fingers over it. It felt both delicate and solid, and Violet worried she might break something that her grandmother had once considered special. Important.
She studied the etchings engraved on its lid, a labyrinth of people, trees, and birds, each intricate and carefully crafted. She flipped it over, her breath catching as she recognized the mechanism underneath it.
It was a music box. A windup music box.
Violet’s heart sped up as she wondered . . .
. . . if it were even possible that this music box and her music box—the one in her head—could possibly play the same tune. She knew there was only one way to find out.
She wavered for only a moment before winding the small silver dial, tightening the springs inside that would unleash the song within. Still, she didn’t lift the lid right away. She paused, the air around her growing thick with anticipation, her own song buzzing in her ears as her fingers froze above it.
And then she opened it . . . and the first notes played.
Soft and tinkling, the sound filled her room, bleeding into the imprint that followed her everywhere, that filled her every waking—and sleeping—thought.
The two weren’t a match.
She recognized the tune, though. She’d heard it before, the soft lilting of notes. Every child in the world would probably recognize that song.
Brahms Lullaby.
Violet could remember the song. She recalled hearing her grandmother hum it to her when she was small. She listened, letting the lullaby overtake the sound of her own imprint as she savored the bittersweet memories.
When the song ended, Violet closed the lid again, setting the box aside.
She began removing item by item, inspecting each one and then moving on to the next. It was fascinating to explore her grandmother’s life, all packed into one place.
When she reached the bottom, she realized it was filled with books. She plucked one of them out and flipped through its pages.
No, she realized, they weren’t just books. These were journals. There were at least fifteen of them, Violet counted, maybe more. Her grandmother had been a dedicated journaler, it seemed.
She felt strange just holding the private diaries that had once belonged to her grandmother, let alone contemplating opening one of them, peeking inside its cover.
But she felt like she needed to. Her grandmother was the only other person she’d ever known who could do what she could . . . find the dead.
Tentatively, falteringly, she flipped open the worn cover and looked at the scrawled, handwritten pages. The ink was clear and strong—not faded, as she’d expected it to be after so many years, and if Violet hadn’t known better, she could’ve easily believed that this had been written just yesterday.
June 14, 1960
Ian was there again today and I’m starting to suspect he might like me. I hope so anyway. After school, he waited by Bobby DiMaio’s locker, leaning against it and pretending he wasn’t there just to see me. Pretending that he and Bobby have so much to catch up on, like there aren’t enough hours in the day to say all the things they need to say. But I’m not buying it. It didn’t used to be that way. He never used to wait for Bobby, not until the night Judy and I bumped into him after the game. Now he waits at Bobby’s locker every day, stealing glimpses of me when he thinks I’m not looking. But I see him. And every day when they walk by, he wears a smile that I’m sure is meant for me.
Violet glanced up, her cheeks burning as if she’d just been caught looking through someone’s bedroom window. Like she was some sort of Peeping Tom.
Still, it didn’t stop her from reading the next passage.
June 16, 1960
Bobby wasn’t at school today, but Ian was still waiting anyway. Only this time he didn’t stand at Bobby’s locker, he stood at mine. When he said “Hi, Lu,” my stoma
ch did nervous flips and I was terrified to open my mouth and try to talk, afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer him. How is that possible? How can a boy make me suddenly speechless? He did, though, and I didn’t even care. When he smiles at me, it’s like staring into the face of an angel. He makes me forget about all the things my mother taught me . . . about being good and faithful and pure. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
July 3, 1960
It happened! I can’t believe it happened, but it did. Ian Williams kissed me. Me! I let him, and I even kissed him back. My mother would have a heart attack if she found out. I’d never be allowed to leave the house again. But I’d do it all over. A hundred times over! It was the most amazing, wonderful, beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I know I shouldn’t say things like that. I know what that makes me, but I don’t care. Ian kissed me, and I kissed him back.
Violet covered her mouth, trying not to giggle at the idea of her grandmother—a woman who’d always seemed so . . . so old to Violet—having a crush on a boy.
She couldn’t get over how old-fashioned it all was, the notion that a girl wouldn’t be allowed to kiss a boy.
Violet flipped through the pages, skimming the entries.
August 28, 1960
We have to sneak around to see each other now. Mother says Ian’s not the right kind of boy for me, that he’s not good enough. I don’t know what makes us any better than him since Daddy works at the factory, same as Ian’s father, but that’s what she says. I think she expected me to go to college and find a husband, not to marry a local boy who will likely end up at the factory too. I don’t care though. I want to be with Ian. Only Ian. Besides, I can still go to college—Ian will wait for me. Who knows, maybe he’ll go to college too. Or maybe neither of us will. Maybe we’ll run away and get married before our parents can stop us. Mrs. Ian Williams. Mrs. Louise Williams.
September 6, 1960
Ian’s away with his father for the week. Hunting season started and his daddy decided he was old enough to go with the rest of the men. I miss the smell of him. I miss his lips and his strong arms. I miss him.
September 13, 1960
I tried not to be alarmed when I saw him, but I knew it the moment he came strutting down the hall at school on Monday morning—he’d killed something. I hadn’t considered what his hunting trip might mean beyond the two of us being separated for an entire week. I hadn’t thought about the consequences of him carrying a gun. He may as well have come to school still wearing his bloodied hunting gear—I could see it just as clearly. More so maybe. It was revolting. The smell he was carrying was sickly and sweet, like the decayed vegetation in my mother’s garden at the end of the season. Like rotting, rancid, moldering fruits. Except that I was the only one who noticed it. I was the only one who’d known what he’d done to earn the mark he now wore. That he would always wear.
September 15, 1960
I’ve been avoiding Ian for two days, but I know he knows something’s wrong. How do I tell him that it’s not his fault . . . not really? I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible, it comes off him in waves, like heat. Holding my breath only made me dizzy, but at least I could be with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. Until I let him kiss me. That was when I tasted it. It was on his lips, and then it was on mine. I actually gagged before I could push him away. I told him I had to go, that I had to catch my bus, and then I ran away. I can’t avoid him forever, can I?
September 16, 1960
I’ve decided to tell him. I’m afraid. I haven’t told anyone since I was a little girl, before I knew it was something to be ashamed of, when my parents made it clear that I was never to talk about it again. That, like my great-grandmother and my aunt Claire (who they pretend doesn’t exist), I’m touched. Touched. I know what they mean when they say that. They mean crazy. It used to bother me that they felt that way about me, but I’ve learned to hide the things I see and hear and smell from them. I’ve learned not to tell them about the dead animals I sense. But now, with Ian, I feel like he needs to know, otherwise he’ll wonder why I’ve backed away from him. Maybe together we can figure this out. Maybe we can find a way to change it. Or at least to live with it.
Violet sat up, her heart racing despite the fact that she was reading about events that had unfolded over fifty years ago. She no longer felt guilty about reading her grandmother’s private thoughts; she had to find out what had happened next.
September 20, 1960
It was a mistake. I knew it almost immediately. I could see it in his eyes, the way the spark that was always there, just for me, flickered and then faded away, dying completely. His expression went blank as I tried to explain—about the bodies I could find, about the colors I would see and the smells I would smell. About the smell I could smell on him. No, he didn’t go blank exactly—he went cold. Cold as ice. I wanted to go back in time, to do it over and not say anything, but it was too late. I’d already said the words. It’s been three days now and I haven’t seen him once. Not at school, not at the river where we used to meet in secret, and not at his house when I ride my bike past. Now he’s the one avoiding me.
September 23, 1960
The whispers follow me everywhere, even into the stalls of the girls’ room when I think I’m alone, hiding, trying to find some peace and quiet. But there is no peace for me. Everyone knows now. Everyone at school believes the same things my parents do, the same thing that Ian does. That I’m touched.
October 11, 1960
My mother says we’re moving again. My own father no longer speaks to me. He can’t even look me in the eye. I know he’ll get over it, but for now, when I feel like I need my parents the most, the frosty look that passes over his face whenever I enter the room cuts worse than any blade ever could. My mother’s not much better. She resents me and has a hard time hiding it. I’d rather have the silent treatment from her than listen to her offhanded comments about the friends she’ll be leaving behind and the church groups she’ll miss when we’re gone. As if I haven’t lost anything.
I’ve lost everything.
The first diary entries ended there, the rest of the pages in the book Violet was holding were blank, as if her grandmother had given up on her journal when she’d given up her secret. Violet tried to imagine what that must have been like for her, tried to reconcile the grandmother she knew—the one with quick-smiling eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green—with the lonely girl in the pages of the diary. She must have been, what, fifteen . . . sixteen at the time? Young. And with no one to turn to.
Violet had no idea what that would be like; she’d always been able to count on her parents, and her aunt and uncle. She had Jay too.
She set the journal aside and climbed on her bed, bringing the music box with her and setting it on her nightstand. It was pretty, and it reminded her of her grandmother. It reminded her that her life wasn’t so lonely.
She flipped it over and wound the silver key, opening the lid and listening to the sound of her grandmother’s lullaby.
CHAPTER 4
“DID I MENTION I’M GLAD IT’S FRIDAY?” ROLLING over, Violet tried to ignore the protesting groan of springs whenever either she or Jay moved, making it sound like they were using his bed as a trampoline. She leaned up on her elbows and stared down at him, her lips curving into a lazy smile as she took in his disheveled hair and the uneven grin that met her. “I wish you didn’t have to work tomorrow. You could go to the lake with us.” She’d meant with Chelsea, Jules, and Claire, and probably everyone else from school who would be soaking up these last few days of summer.
Jay reached up and parted Violet’s curls, moving them away from her face so he could study her, the way he always did—gazing into her eyes and making her feel like he could see inside of her, before finally settling on her lips. He looked at them too, making her stomach feel fluttery as her face flushed in anticipation. “You won’t even notice I’m not there,” he teased, his mouth almost to hers. “
Did I mention how glad I am you suggested hanging out here tonight instead of at your house?” The low timbre of his voice made Violet’s heart hammer against her chest as she leaned just the tiniest bit closer, so that his breath lingered with hers. “I mean, nothing against your parents, Vi, but this is way better than having your mom follow us around, asking if we need anything every five seconds. She might as well just say she doesn’t want us messing around instead of trying to spy on us all the time.”
Violet smiled back at him, but didn’t disagree with his assessment. She must’ve asked her mom a hundred times to back off . . . just a little. She’d come to terms with the “no bedroom” rule where Jay was concerned, but her mother’s constant hovering had reached the point that they had no space at all when they were at her house. It was impossible to even get through a movie without her mom offering to pop popcorn for them, or scoop them some ice cream, or order pizza, any excuse she could find to check in on the two of them.
“I thought things would get better once I turned seventeen, but I swear it’s gotten worse. Worse than worse. She’s making me feel like a prisoner on suicide watch.”
“What’d you expect, Vi?” he asked, pulling her down so she was nestled against him. The scent of his soap, crisp and fresh, filled her nose as she rested her head against his shoulder. His bed creaked again and Violet wondered what his mom must think. Then she realized that Ann Heaton wasn’t like her mom. She wouldn’t barge in on them, and probably didn’t have her ear pressed against the other side of the door. “After everything that’s happened? Your folks are just worried, that’s all.” His voice rumbled against her ear.
Violet reached up to find his hand at her shoulder. Her fingers danced and laced and moved through his, never settling in one place, and all the while his thumb traced her palm, her wrist, her pulse. She was amazed how such innocent gestures could make her hot and restless. “But that’s the thing. I don’t see how what you and I are—or aren’t—doing has to do with . . . that. . . .” She faltered over the words. It was one thing to be aware of what had happened to her—the abduction, the fact that she’d had to kill the man who’d kidnapped her so she could escape—but it was another altogether to actually talk about it . . . even all these months later. She still struggled with that part. Even now, lying here with Jay, she could hear the constant reminder of what she’d done. “I just don’t see how those two things are related at all. It’s not like you were responsible for what happened to me. They can’t possibly blame you—you weren’t even there.”
Dead Silence Page 5
