“It wasn’t anything. I don’t know what you mean.”
Chelsea stopped, and Violet considered forging on and pretending they’d lost her in the crowded hallway. But this was Chelsea she was talking about. She’d have to deal with this mess sooner or later.
Besides, Jay stopped too, and was now looking from Violet to Chelsea. “I’m pretty sure I missed something. Are you two fighting or something?”
“Nope,” Chelsea stated, frowning now. “And apparently I was the one who missed something.” She leaned close to Jay, so close that Violet had to backtrack in her steps to hear what she was saying. “But don’t worry . . .” Chelsea poked him with her elbow. “I know everything now. Violet told me her little secret. Or”—she narrowed her eyes at Violet, who was right beside them now—“I thought I knew everything. So what gives? Don’t tell me Rafe knows too. And that girl?”
“Shh!” Violet hissed, dragging Chelsea by the arm away from the rush of students, not wanting anyone to overhear what they were talking about.
Violet turned to Chelsea then, her words coming from between gritted teeth. “I told you, it’s a secret,” she stressed.
Chelsea nodded. Eagerly. Wide-eyed. “Okay, yeah, and I was thinking we should have a secret handshake. Like a gang.” She held her hand out to Violet, palm out, but Violet slapped it away.
“Are you kidding me with that? A secret handshake? Are you five? Come on, Chelsea, this is serious. You have to be careful.” Her voice bordered on hysteria. “You promised I could trust you.”
Chelsea straightened up, dropping her hand. “And you totally can, Vi. I was just kidding about the handshake. I mean, kind of. You can count on me. I swear I’ll never tell anyone.” She met Violet’s gaze directly. “Swear.”
Violet watched her, studying her, considering her words and the earnestness of her expression. And then she sighed, her shoulders sagging and her stomach unknotting, just a little bit. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“So tell me then,” Chelsea said, stopping Violet before she could go.
Violet turned back. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me if Rafe and Gemma know too.”
Violet chewed the inside of her cheek, and she saw Jay watching her from the corner of her eye. She wondered what he would do, what he’d tell Chelsea if he were standing there, in her place.
Finally, she just said, “They do, Chels. But I can’t tell you why.”
Krystal waved enthusiastically as Violet got out of her car. She wore purple knee-high boots over black-and-white-striped tights that had a kind of, like, jailhouse chic to them. The streaks in Krystal’s black hair were nearly as glaring as the purple of her boots.
Krystal sprinted across the parking lot to meet Violet. “You okay?” she gushed, her arms squishing her friend fiercely. “I heard what happened last week. Rafe said it was grue-some. Said you totally lost it. Puked and everything.”
“Nice. Tell Rafe thanks for sharing.” Violet winced, wishing everyone didn’t have to know every little detail about her.
Krystal released her. “Aw, don’t be that way,” she coaxed. “That’s what we’re here for. Teammates, right?” It was hard to be bothered by the statement though, not when it was coming from Krystal with her big, guileless brown eyes staring back at her. “Oh,” she exclaimed then, reaching into her pocket. “I brought you something.” She held out a tiny blue velvet bag that was cinched at the top with a narrow length of gold cord. “I left it in the bag so it wouldn’t touch my skin. I didn’t want any of my mojo to accidentally rub off on it. It’s called merikanite obsidian, but some people call it Apache Tears. It’s for luck.”
Violet pulled the black stone out of the bag and rubbed her thumb across its smooth, polished surface. It had a tiny metal clasp affixed to one end of it. She could use some luck, she supposed.
“You can add it to the chain . . . with the others,” Krystal told her, pointing to Violet’s chest, and Violet wondered how Krystal had known she was wearing the necklace she’d given her. She always kept it tucked away, hidden beneath her shirt.
Already, there were two healing stones dangling from the chain. One that Krystal had given her just after Rafe had crashed his motorcycle, when Violet had first gone to visit Krystal at The Crystal Palace—the psychic shop where she worked. It was a slick black onyx, meant for protection. Violet had never pointed out to Krystal, who believed implicitly in the power of the healing crystals, that she’d given it to her right before she’d been assaulted by a gang member outside the Center.
So much for protection.
The second crystal had been a welcome-home present of sorts. Krystal had given it to Violet the day she’d come home, after her abduction. As a medium, Krystal claimed that she’d known where to find Violet after being contacted by the ghost of her abductor. After Violet had killed him, of course.
Krystal had brought her a pretty blue crystalline stone meant for healing. Violet had strung it on the same chain as the onyx. Unlike the onyx, the blue crystal was jagged and rough, but felt warm pressed against her skin, and Violet hated to admit how much she’d grown to depend on it. How badly she wanted to believe the stone would work. That it would heal her, make her better—both inside and out.
Violet pressed her hand to the place where the other two stones covered her heart. “Thanks, Krystal,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward about accepting the gift from her friend. “You really don’t have to do that.”
Krystal punched Violet in the arm. “Don’t be stupid. I know I don’t.”
Violet followed Krystal inside. She was always surprised by the way she felt when she stepped through the doors that led into the Center. Even after everything with Dr. Lee, she’d never felt . . . uneasy being here.
It still felt more like walking through her own front door.
It was no different today, when Violet slipped inside, that same sense of coming home.
When Sam saw her, he jumped up from the table, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive, and he rushed over to meet her near the entrance. They stood apart from the overpolished conference table, where Gemma and Rafe were already seated. Krystal didn’t wait for them; instead she dropped into an open chair and began bouncing impatiently.
Rafe shot an indifferent glance in their direction, but Sam moved to block his view, not wanting anyone to overhear whatever he had to say.
His expression was eager and hopeful, reminding Violet just how young he really was. “I think I have something for you,” he said, glancing around nervously, as if he expected to catch someone spying on them. “Let’s talk. Afterward.”
Violet had nearly forgotten about the photo she’d slipped to Sam at Dr. Lee’s office last week. She wanted to know what he meant when he said he had something for her. But when she peered past him, Sara was already standing at the head of the table, watching her, and Violet knew it would have to wait for later.
She stole a quick glance at Rafe on her way to the table. He was reclining in his chair, making an effort to look as unfazed as ever by everyone and everything around him.
Taking the open seat by Krystal, Violet couldn’t help smiling when Krystal threw her head over the back of the chair, leaning so far backward she was practically upside down as she grinned at Violet. “What was that all about?” she asked, not realizing that Sara had already started the meeting.
Violet pointed toward the front of the table, just as Sara’s ice-coated fingers held up the first image.
“These,” Sara explained on a gust of crisp air that only Violet could see, “are the first photographs of the crime scene I texted you all about this afternoon.”
As soon as Violet saw it, she understood why they’d all been called down here. There were two victims in this picture, a man and the woman, lying side by side, and both of them had their throats cut in the same way the family at the lake had.
“And this”—Sara held up a second photo—“is why we were called.”
Goose bumps peppere
d Violet’s skin, as déjà vu tickled her senses. It was an image of the same strange cross as the one from the other house. It had been drawn on the wall in blood or red paint.
“It’s called a brimstone cross,” Sara went on. “It was adopted as a satanic symbol by Anton LaVey in the sixties. But it’s also called the Leviathan cross, and is the alchemic symbol for sulfur. We’re working on possible connections in other cases, places where it might have shown up before. But for now, at least we know what it’s called.
“There was this, too.” She held up another picture. The words, DO YOU WANT TO SUFFER? had been written on a wall, also in the same dripping red substance that Violet was certain must be blood.
She glanced sideways at the others, to see if anyone winced or looked away. But everyone stared forward, watching as Sara flipped through the photographs. It was easier to look at pictures, Violet realized, remembering the way she’d felt when she’d stood in the middle of the crime scene. The way she’d puked into the planter on the front porch from the sight—and smell—of all that carnage.
Beside her, Krystal twirled her chair from side to side. “Who were they?” she asked Sara. “The people in the pictures?”
“Young couple from University Place in Tacoma.” Sara’s blue eyes found Violet then. “But they found another body at the couple’s home. A girl named Veronica Bowman.”
Violet stiffened, every muscle in her body going uncomfortably rigid. She recognized that name, just as Sara must have known she would.
Sara frowned and nodded slightly, the hint of an acknowledgment, and Violet watched as the lights above them reflected off the frost that coated Sara’s features . . . her lashes, her lips, her cheeks. Sara kept talking. “The girl was the sixteen-year-old daughter of the family Violet found,” she explained to the others.
Sara slid another photo down the polished wood table, past Krystal and toward Violet. “This was her.”
Violet felt as if Sara had just thrust her ice-cold hands around the base of her spine and squeezed. Icy pinpricks of horror seized her.
The girl didn’t look anything like she had in the pictures Violet had seen hanging on the refrigerator in her house. Even if she had been alive, Violet doubted anyone would have recognized her if they’d seen her. She was older than she had been in the pictures, but she was also emaciated and her hair was dyed. She was haggard and worn, and bore the grim expression of death.
Yet her body didn’t have the same gaping neck wound as the couple—or that her parents and younger brother had. Instead, in her left arm, dangling from the crook of her elbow, was a hypodermic needle, its plunger pushed all the way in.
“Drugs?” Violet asked, her throat entirely too dry, and she marveled that she’d managed to speak at all.
“We won’t know for sure until the tox screen comes back, but it looks that way.”
The chill slithered all the way down to her bones and she fought the urge to physically shiver as she turned to Sam. She wondered if that’s what he’d been planning to tell her, that he’d somehow known—from touching the school photograph she’d given him—that the girl was dead. That she’d been murdered too.
Judging from the expression on his face though, Sam was just as stunned by Sara’s announcement as she was. More so, maybe. He shook his head, and Violet glanced away quickly, not wanting anyone else to see their brief exchange.
But she caught Rafe watching her, and saw that she was too late. He didn’t bother trying to hide the interest that flickered just behind his usual veiled countenance. She reminded herself to breathe as she forced herself not to even blink in response. Instead she smiled, hoping it made her look innocent rather than tense—wound painfully tight—like she felt. If only her lips weren’t sticking to her teeth. If only Rafe would stop looking at her like he knew she was hiding something.
Violet pushed the picture away, not wanting to see it anymore. She got up and left the table, unsure her stomach could handle any more.
She retreated to the restroom, the one place where Rafe wouldn’t dare come after her, and she studied her image in the mirror as she washed her hands. When the door opened behind her, she watched Krystal from the reflection, marveling that the harsh overhead lights didn’t wash her out the way they had Violet. Krystal still looked vibrant and flamboyant, her hair sticking up from the coil at the back of her head in magenta and black spikes, making her look like some sort of goth peacock. Violet didn’t want to look at herself again. She’d already seen how she looked . . . sickly and pale. Too much like the corpses she’d seen during her lifetime.
“Hey,” Krystal said, approaching hesitantly, making an effort to sound light. “That sorta sucked, didn’t it? Are you okay?”
Violet shrugged, rubbing her hands a little too vigorously. “Yeah, it sorta did,” she agreed. And then, because it was Krystal, and because Krystal would open up to her if the roles were reversed, she said, “I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I think maybe because I was sure we’d find the girl, and it would suck for her because she’d lost her family, but at least she’d be safe.” She shrugged, wishing she had a better explanation. “Do you think . . . could you try to talk to her? To see if she can tell us who did this to her?”
Krystal snickered, and then straightened up, trying to look repentant for laughing at Violet’s suggestion. “Sorry. I know you’re serious. But, really, Vi, you know it doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried to tell you I have no control over who comes to me. They just”—she raised her hands, which were closed, to her reflection and then opened them both at once, spreading her fingers wide and making it look like her ability to talk to ghosts was a magic trick—“appear. I wish it were that simple. I’d ask her in a heartbeat, you know I would.”
“I guess I just wanted her to have a happy ending.” Violet’s voice was filled with remorse.
Krystal turned around and leaned against the counter, facing Violet. “I know you did. We all did,” she said, commiserating as she chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, getting neon lipstick all over her teeth. “Sometimes I think it’d be better if we didn’t have to see the things we see, or know the things we know. Then again, if we didn’t . . .” Her dark eyes were wide and honest and open. “If I couldn’t do the things I do, we might not have known where to find you when you were missing. You had a happy ending.”
Violet’s heart stuttered. Krystal was right. There were other reasons she was here, putting her abilities to use. Reasons that had nothing at all to do with Dr. Lee.
Still, it didn’t seem fair that she was okay while that other girl—Veronica—had ended up dead.
But life isn’t always fair, her mom used to say.
And it certainly isn’t always easy, Violet thought as she tried to wipe the images of the crime scene from her mind.
She ripped a piece of coarse brown paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands.
Maybe Sam had discovered something that might help even the odds, that might make things a little fairer. Maybe he could help Violet figure out how to give the girl’s death some meaning.
Suddenly, she had to find out what he knew.
It was getting cooler in the evenings now, and the late-summer-almost-autumn air clung to Violet’s skin—not entirely uncomfortable, but not exactly balmy once the sun started to set.
Krystal and Gemma had already gone home, and Violet was beginning to wonder if everyone else had too.
She hadn’t missed much after she’d excused herself from the meeting. Sara had managed to get some belongings from the family at the lake house—family photos, birth certificates, pieces of jewelry, a cell phone. But none of her teammates had picked up on anything right away. It was like that sometimes, just as Krystal had told her when they were in the restroom, they had no control over when and what came to them.
It was, Violet supposed, a little like magic after all.
She’d been waiting in front of the Center for nearly half an hour, and was starting to think that maybe Sam h
ad ditched her. That maybe he’d snuck out that mysterious back entrance she’d heard Sara mention . . . the one that no one had ever actually bothered showing her.
She thought about walking around to the back of the building, about creeping down the alleyway to see if she could find it, but something stopped her.
Memories. Memories of the day she’d been attacked by James Nua in that very alley. Memories of his fatal shooting.
Violet’s phone rang and she checked it. It was Chelsea . . . again. The third time she’d called since Violet had been out here. She couldn’t help thinking she’d made a mistake confiding in her friend because now, suddenly, Chelsea was sort of . . . preoccupied with Violet and her body-finding ability.
It was weird, like Violet was a bug, and Chelsea was examining her through a magnifying glass. But she was worried that Chelsea might inadvertently burn her if she held that lens on her for too long.
She hit Ignore and shoved her phone in her purse, then whirled on her heel, deciding to wait in her car instead. As she turned back, she gasped when she ran into someone who was standing right behind her.
“Holy . . . geez, Sam, you scared me half to death!” Violet wheezed, clutching her chest and trying to catch her breath. “I thought maybe you’d ducked out the back.”
“Sorry, Violet.” But he didn’t look overly sorry. Instead, he was grinning in that too-eager way that made Violet forget he’d nearly given her a heart attack. “I didn’t realize you even knew about the back entrance.”
“I don’t. Not really.” She frowned, wondering when she’d stop being the new girl and start learning all the “cool secrets,” as Sam called them. “So what do you have for me? Did you figure something out?” she asked, impatient now that he was standing here. Despite the sudden rush of adrenaline, she rubbed her hands over her arms.
Sam reached into his back pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. He held it out to her.
She glanced at it, and then back to him. “Okaaay . . . you have a flyer,” she drawled. She peeked again. “For what? A band?”
Dead Silence Page 20
