Dead Silence

by Kimberly Derting

  Sam nodded. “Yep.” He reached out and tapped the paper. “See that? They’re playing tomorrow night.” Violet looked at the date. “I want you to meet me there,” he told her.

  Violet scanned the rest of the flyer. The band was called Safe Word, and from all the skulls and eyeballs, and the font that looked like it had been carved with the blade of a knife, she guessed they played some sort of heavy metal or grunge, or maybe some form of alternative. The overall feel of the flyer was dark and lurid and menacing. “Why?”

  Sam shifted on his feet. “I don’t know, exactly. I just know that when I touched that picture you gave me . . . of the girl . . .” He pulled out the picture, too, and passed it back to Violet. “I see this band. I think they might have meant something to her. I think if we go there, we might . . .” He reached up and tugged at his collar. “I don’t know, maybe figure something out.”

  Violet considered that. She thought about the kind of place they might be walking into, and the kind of people who might be there watching a band called Safe Word, and she weighed that with the fact that they might actually find a clue there, something to help them figure out who’s been doing this. Who killed the girl . . . and her family.

  She looked at the address and frowned. “Do you know where this place is?”

  Sam nodded, looking more eager, more confident now. “It’s an all-ages club, near the Space Needle. And the show starts at eight, so don’t be late.” Before Violet could say anything, he said, “Did ya hear that? It rhymed.”

  She reached out and shoved Sam in the shoulder. “I think the fact you just pointed that out tells me you’re not ready for a club like this—all ages or not.”

  Sam smirked at her. “You’re just jealous ’cause you didn’t think of it first.” And then he sauntered away from her, heading toward the corner as he checked his phone for the time. Violet saw a station wagon turning down the street, an older one with fake wood paneling strips on the side of it. “Gotta go,” he said. “My ride’s here.”

  Violet lifted her hand to her eyes as she watched the car come closer, a woman with a full head of white hair sitting behind the wheel. “Is that your mom?” Violet asked casually.

  Sam grinned back at her. “Nah. My folks work late, so my gram gives me a lift when I can’t get a bus.”

  “Your gram?” Violet teased.

  “What? It beats walking.” He turned to go, but Violet stopped him one more time.

  “What’s your gram’s name?” she asked, trying to sound only mildly interested even as her heart began to beat a little too hard. Behind him, the station wagon was waiting.

  “Her name . . . ?” He looked puzzled, and then shook his head, as if mentally shrugging it off. “Thelma,” he said. “Why? You wanna meet her?”

  Violet made a face, scoffing at the idea. “That’s okay. I gotta go too.” She waited while Sam climbed inside, and then she waved politely. Really, she was trying to get a better look at the woman behind the wheel. Trying to decide if she’d been mistaken.

  She stood there as the car disappeared in the opposite direction, and waited for her pulse to return to normal again before she looked down at the flyer once more. She wasn’t as confident as Sam had been, not about the place or the band or about finding a clue there. She concentrated on the large skull in the center of the creased paper, the one with a knife protruding from its eye socket.

  She hoped Sam was right. She shook her head as she started to fold up the flyer to put it away.

  But then something stopped her. Something in the bottom corner caught her attention. Something small and buried in the layout, obscured by the busy font and the floating, disembodied eyeballs that seemed to be watching Violet from the page.

  At first she thought it was her mind playing tricks on her. And if she hadn’t known what she was looking at, she most certainly would have missed it. But then she leaned closer, holding it up to the light and squinting.

  It wasn’t a trick, though. It was definitely there.

  A small brimstone cross, just above the address to the club.

  Exactly like the one from the crime scenes.

  A HOUSE DIVIDED

  IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WAY. TOGETHER, they should be strong, united, cohesive. Instead, they were splintered. Fractured.

  Just like his other family had been.

  Before . . .

  He wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong.

  No, not him, Colton. It was all Colton’s fault. And now, because of what Colton had done to the girl, they were all at risk. They were in danger of losing their family.

  He’d have to figure a way to fix it. To make Kisha stop crying and to make Boxer stop glaring at Colton like he wanted to rip his throat out with his bare hands. He had to find a way to keep Bailey comfortable, and to make them all remember why they’d come together in the first place: Because they needed one another. Because they had no one else.

  It wouldn’t be easy though. But that’s why he was there. That was his job, to fix things. That’s what leaders did. What fathers did.

  And he understood his role. He’d known from the beginning that the others—his lost children—looked up to him, that they needed him.

  Without him, they were nothing.

  With him, they were a family. His family.

  They’d already had to get rid of one member, their newest member . . . their little Butterfly. All because of Colton. Because he’d wanted a girl. Because he couldn’t be patient.

  They couldn’t afford to lose any others.

  He needed to stay clearheaded and focused. It was his job to keep them on track.

  Boxer would get over the girl. Kisha too. But he’d have to watch Colton. Colton was getting out of hand. He couldn’t allow Colton to jeopardize them again.

  He couldn’t let Colton think he had the upper hand.

  He was the father . . .

  Maybe Colton needed a reminder.

  CHAPTER 14

  “I’M SURPRISED YOU CALLED. YOU DIDN’T LOOK so good back at the Center, I thought you’d probably go home and crash.”

  Violet surveyed Krystal’s striped tights and her bright purple boots. She imagined herself trying to pull off the same look and knew she could never do it, that she’d only seem ridiculous. Yet Krystal rocked it, wearing her black lace-up bustier dress with the deep purple ruffles that peeked out from beneath the thicker layers of black that covered them like sable clouds. “I was hoping we could talk,” she said, looking around The Crystal Palace.

  Usually it was quiet here, a place where people came to get their palms read, and shop for incense, healing stones, and massage oils in peace. But tonight, there was something going on, and the place was more packed than Violet had ever seen it.

  “Oh yeah, sorry about that. Séance,” Krystal said, nodding toward the crush of people milling together among the shelves and tables and displays.

  Violet took a closer look at their faces, and noted their shared swollen eyes, and the way they clung to one another, holding hands and offering whispers of support.

  Krystal lowered her voice into what should have been a whisper, but was still too loud, drawing more than one set of eyes her way. She pointed at a couple standing together, and Violet realized they were at the center of the congregation. “They’re trying to figure out why their son killed himself.”

  “Uh . . . oh, sorry, is this a bad time then?” Violet asked, shifting nervously now as even more of the people turned to look their way. She felt suddenly like she was interrupting something very private. “I can come back . . . you know, later.”

  Krystal scoffed at the idea, dismissing it with a wave of one of her fingerless-gloved hands. “Nah. I’m not performing the séance. Mystique is doing it.” She pointed again, indicating a small woman who was seated on a pile of colorful throw pillows surrounding a short, round table.

  Violet had done her best to avoid Mystique—the shop’s owner—ever since their first unfortunate meeting. Krystal had
introduced Violet to the woman, who was older than both of the girls, closer to her mom’s age, as a “friend,” never mentioning anything about the team or that Violet had an unusual ability of her own. Not that she’d expected Krystal to share that kind of information with her boss . . . those matters were meant to stay private. Secret.

  But Mystique had misunderstood Krystal’s use of the term friend, deciding that Violet must be Krystal’s latest girlfriend . . . of whom, apparently, there had been more than a few. She’d started asking Violet all about her background, her family, where she’d grown up, and where she went to school. It wasn’t until she’d started asking about Violet’s former “friends,” and what her intentions toward Krystal were, that Violet realized what she was really getting at, and by then she’d backed Violet all the way up against the counter and was practically breathing down her neck.

  Trapped, Violet had searched for Krystal, hoping her friend might bail her out of the sticky situation. But Krystal, Violet realized when she spotted her leaning against a rack of lotions and body sprays designed to open up your chakras, was grinning back at her, amused by Mystique’s interrogation techniques.

  It seemed to Violet that a woman like Mystique, who claimed to have psychic abilities, should have realized that Violet was freaking the hell out . . . and that she wasn’t Krystal’s girlfriend. You know, just for the record.

  Now, as Violet caught sight of the woman hunched in front of the table, she felt trapped again by her black, weasel-like eyes. She wanted to search for a way to escape that beady gaze, feeling like Mystique was trying to peer inside of her. She was grateful for the mass of people who surrounded the table. Mystique had other matters at hand to contend with that didn’t involve questioning Violet about her sexual history.

  “Come on,” Krystal said, reaching for Violet’s hand and dragging her through the plastic beads that separated the cluttered storefront from the even more cluttered storeroom in back. “I needed a break anyway, that kid wouldn’t shut up. All he wants is to be left alone, and for his parents to stop blubbering over him.” She plopped down onto a stack of boxes and reached for a can of Diet Coke that was already opened, a straw with a purple smear of lipstick circling its top sticking out of it.

  “Wait, do you mean he’s in there . . . the boy who killed himself? With his family?” Violet asked, waving away the can when Krystal held it out to her. “Does Mystique know? Will she tell them, you know, to . . .” She made an uncertain face, not sure what, exactly, Mystique should tell the grieving parents. “To move on or whatever?”

  Krystal nodded, as if that much were obvious. “I told her. She’ll pass the message along to them. It’ll make ’em feel better to know he’s okay.”

  Violet cocked her head. “But she can’t . . . or can she . . . ?”

  Krystal waited for her to finish her sentence, but when she didn’t, Krystal filled in the blanks for her. “Hear him? No. I’m not sure what Mystique does or doesn’t hear, but she definitely didn’t hear this kid, otherwise she’d’ve needed a break too.” She sighed, taking another long sip from her straw. “So, what’s up?”

  “I wanted to ask you something.” Violet reached into her purse and drew out her grandmother’s journal. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.”

  She plucked the picture from beneath the cover and held it out to Krystal, watching as Krystal took it from her. “What am I looking for?”

  “Just tell me if anyone looks . . . familiar.”

  Krystal looked back down, and Violet waited. Krystal’s eyes moved over the image, starting from one side, the side where Violet’s grandmother was, and moving across it. Within seconds, she glanced up, a sly grin on her face, as if she’d just solved a complicated riddle. “That’s Dr. Lee, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not who I meant. Keep looking.”

  Frowning, she turned to the picture again. And then she froze, her face creasing with concentration, or maybe it was confusion, or disbelief, Violet wasn’t entirely sure which. “That’s my mom,” she said, reaching out to tap the photo of a soft, nondescript-looking woman with mousy blonde-brown hair and full hips. She looked nothing at all like Krystal, who was garish and bold, and was at least partially of Asian descent. “Where did you get this?” And then as if puzzling it out, she asked, “Why is my mom in a picture with Dr. Lee?”

  Violet reached over and took the photograph, not comfortable with anyone else holding it for too long. She didn’t want it destroyed—the only piece of tangible evidence she had that the Circle of Seven had been real. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. Your mom. Dr. Lee.” She pointed to the picture. “My grandmother.” She moved her finger. “Rafe’s mom. They all knew one another. They all belonged on a team that called themselves the Circle of Seven.” She glanced up at Krystal, who still wore the same bewildered expression on her face. “They all had abilities, I think. Like us.”

  Even after spending nearly an hour talking the whole thing over with Krystal, who was as baffled as Violet was by the discovery that their family members had known one another, Violet didn’t have any more answers. She’d already known that Krystal’s mom had been able to talk to ghosts the same way Krystal could. Krystal had told her that back when they’d first met.

  She was sure now that it wasn’t just chance that her grandmother, and Rafe’s and Krystal’s moms, were all on the same team as Dr. Lee. And that now she and Rafe and Krystal were all working together too.

  She also didn’t think it was a coincidence that Sam’s grandmother had looked familiar . . . as impossible as it seemed.

  Her team had been brought together, the same way their relatives had been.

  But by whom? And why?

  When she got home, she called Rafe and told him about Krystal’s mother. He needed to know everything she did. She could no longer pretend she was in this alone. If Dr. Lee wanted her to be on a team so badly, then she’d stop fighting it and be the best darn team member she could be.

  No more secrets . . . no more lies.

  At least as far as those she trusted were concerned. And right now that list included Rafe and Krystal and Sam. Gemma, she still wasn’t sure about, but Violet had no doubt that, whether she knew it or not, Gemma had a family member in the photograph that she kept hidden inside her grandmother’s journal. Growing up in the foster system meant that, whoever Gemma’s parents had been, they’d either been unwilling, or unable, to care for her.

  Violet wasn’t sure which would be more difficult to accept. No wonder Gemma had such a chip on her shoulder.

  But for now, at least, Violet wasn’t exactly ready to confide in Gemma.

  Sara was also on the iffy list. Sara had saved her life on more than one occasion, but she couldn’t get over the feeling that Sara might be withholding information from her. Crucial information about why she’d been recruited in the first place and who ran the Center.

  Until she knew for sure, she decided it was better to keep Sara on a need-to-know basis.

  She broached the Sara subject carefully with Rafe, feeling a twinge of guilt. “How are things going on your end?” she asked, after she’d finished telling him about her meeting with Krystal at The Crystal Palace. “Did you talk to Sara, or . . . find anything . . . helpful?”

  “I told you. I don’t think she knows anything.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “But I searched her room this afternoon, while she was still at the Center, and I came up empty.” Violet knew Rafe didn’t want to spy on his sister like that, but she also knew he understood how important it was to figure out who they could trust. “I found some of our mom’s things, and I even went through those, but . . .” There was another pause. “Nothing. All I get when I touch Sara’s things is this sense that she believes in what she’s doing, and sometimes I get flashes of old memories. I feel like I’m eavesdropping on things I shouldn’t be watching—personal moments. But nothing incriminating. I think she’s clean, V.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Violet agre
ed, and meant it. “But we still need to be careful.”

  He laughed. “You’re paranoid.” It was an accusation, but Violet didn’t respond. She didn’t have to, because Rafe was talking again before she could defend herself. “So now that we’ve got all that outta the way, you ready to tell me what the hell was goin’ on between you and Boy Wonder back at the Center?”

  SPARE THE ROD

  EVAN STAYED BACK, HIDING IN THE SHADOWS. HE knew he wouldn’t have to wait for long; Colton would be out of cash soon. He’d only had twelve bucks going in, and twelve bucks didn’t go very far in place like this.

  But it would be just enough to keep him off balance.

  He knew that much from years of watching his mother scrape together change, searching beneath couch cushions and under floor mats, even raiding his piggy bank, before she’d drag him down the street to the crumbling house, the one on the corner that even a six-year-old knew was where the drugs were sold. She’d make him wait outside on the sidewalk while she went in with her pockets jangling.

  And when she’d come back out again, she’d be a whole different person. Not the mom whose face had been tense and sweaty and gray, the one who’d given him an almost indifferent peck on the cheek. No, this mom would be flushed and would kiss him with lips that were too wet and too enthusiastic. It was her eyes that always got him, though . . . they were far too shiny. These were not his mother’s eyes.

  That was on the days when she actually came back outside.

  The other days she just left him there, out on the street by himself. He would wait and wait for her, too afraid to creep to the door and ask for her. Mostly, he would hide in the bushes and watch, hoping that the next time the door opened, it would be her . . . that other mom.

  Eventually, night would fall, and he’d get tired and scared. He was old enough to know he shouldn’t be out that late, and the people who came and went from the dirty house where his mother was became louder and more boisterous and more daring if they saw him, hidden among the shrubs. When he wandered home, he’d sneak inside as quietly as he possible, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his dad, who was already passed out in front of the television.