Chelsea’s head rolled over on her pillow, and her half-lidded eyes widened. “No, don’t go.”
“It’s okay,” Rafe said to Violet, his actions jerky as he rubbed at his neck. “I was just leaving.” Then his gaze fell on Chelsea, and his voice lowered . . . softened. “I’ll come back later, okay?” His hand dropped, and the back of his fingers brushed over the back of hers in a gesture that was far too intimate.
Chelsea smiled blearily up at him, and Violet swallowed hard, forcing herself not to watch the two of them.
“I’ll see you later,” he told Violet as he brushed past her on his way out.
It was true, Violet thought. They would see each other. At school, and at the Center, and maybe even outside both now that he and Chelsea seemed to be . . . getting closer. So why did that thought make her stomach churn? Why did she want so badly to keep them apart?
Didn’t they deserve to be happy?
“I heard I have you to thank,” Chelsea said, drawing Violet’s attention, her lips moving slower than usual. She seemed to have difficulty peeling her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Each word was sluggish and hard fought. “I told you you were a hero.”
Violet forced her smile to remain in place, but inwardly she cringed. “Don’t say that, Chels. I’m just glad my stupid stunts didn’t get you killed.”
Chelsea frowned, her entire face collapsing. “Are you kidding? Look at me. I’m bulletproof.”
Violet looked. At the tubes coming in and out of Chelsea’s arms. At the machines lining both sides of her bed, making noises and monitoring her vitals and who knew what else. Leave it to Chelsea to try to sound tough even when she was half conscious in the hospital.
“Too bad for you it wasn’t a bullet, I guess.”
Chelsea laughed, which turned into a cough, which made her moan and set off a round of monitors, causing a nurse to come rushing into the room. The woman glowered at Violet, who had the good sense to look shamefaced about what she’d done.
“Yeah,” Chelsea said, while the nurse peeled back the sheet and checked the bandage beneath Chelsea’s blue-green hospital gown. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her. “I guess I’m not stab proof.”
The nurse flashed Chelsea a disapproving look, and then shot another one at Violet.
Violet understood the meaning well enough, but the nurse voiced her thoughts anyway. “You need to take it easy. If you can’t, then we’ll have to restrict your visitors. I doubt we’d have a hard time persuading your parents to agree.” Her already arched eyebrows raised almost to her hairline as her warning sank in.
She was probably right. Chelsea’s parents had always liked Violet . . . but that was before. What would they think of her now, after what had happened last night at the club? After Chelsea had almost gotten killed?
When the nurse was gone, Chelsea dismissed the notion. “My folks’ll be fine. They don’t hate you or anything. I already told them it was my idea to go down there. And it’s not like you were the one who drugged me.”
Violet knew Chelsea was right about all of those things, but she also knew parents. Fear could trump logic.
She reached for Chelsea’s hand, thinking how strange it was to hold one of her friends’ hands like this. When they were little, everyone held hands. Everyone hugged and shared Popsicles and sang songs, never caring if they were off-key or that everyone might be listening.
Now, they kept their hands to themselves and didn’t say things like “I love you” even when it was true.
“I’m so sorry, Chelsea. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I would never have let you go with me if I’d’ve known . . .”
Chelsea’s fingers twitched, and Violet wondered if she was trying to squeeze her hand. “Shut up, Vi. That’s messed up if you think I’m gonna let you take the blame. I knew what I was doing.” She smiled then, a small un-Chelsea-like smile with not enough oomph behind it. “Well, except for that whole stabbing part. That, I could’a done without.”
Violet shook her head. She had no idea what more she could say.
But she didn’t have to, Chelsea wasn’t finished yet. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything, Chels.”
“You know in that room? When you came in and I . . . well, right before I . . .” She tried to shrug, but she grimaced when she tried. “. . . died?”
“Yeah.” Violet nodded, wondering where Chelsea was going with this.
Chelsea’s face scrunched up, her brow wrinkling as she concentrated. “This is gonna sound weird, but I thought I saw something. I swear I saw an angel. . . .”
Violet’s eyes widened as she waited for her next breath to come. It felt trapped, caught in the space between her lungs and her mouth. Stuck in the denial she wanted to voice, but couldn’t.
“I felt warm all over, and then saw this weird flash of light, and then, right before I closed my eyes,” she added, her voice so quiet Violet had to strain to hear it over the blood rushing past her own ears. “He just flew away.”
Chelsea’s eyes flitted closed then, and Violet just stood there, waiting to see if there was more. If Chelsea was going to open them and tell her this was all a hoax. That she was playing some sort of practical joke on her.
But there was none of that. Just Chelsea lying there, her breathing growing quieter, her eyelids flickering back and forth beneath her closed lids.
Violet waited a few more minutes, and then realized that she should go. Chelsea needed to rest, and it wouldn’t do Violet any good to hover over her and watch her sleep. She should probably get some rest too.
But how could she? After what Chelsea had just told her?
An angel. Chelsea thought she’d seen an angel.
But was that really so weird? Didn’t people who’d died often say they saw angels? She couldn’t have meant Evan Schulte, the boy who’d drugged her. She couldn’t have seen the same halo of light that Violet had seen.
Violet started to go, barely noticing the flowers and balloons that sat on tables and trays, already lining the wall near the door. But then something caught her eye. She took a step closer as she saw something peeking out from beneath one of the arrangements. Something familiar, something she’d seen too many times before not to recognize. She wandered closer and plucked it free, turning the small business card over in her hands.
On the back was a handwritten annotation:
PTSD Therapy
Violet shoved the card in her pocket and left the room.
EPILOGUE
My Sweetest Violet,
I’ve tried to sit down and write this letter so many times. And so many times I’ve given up, not quite sure where to start . . . or where to end it. I have so many things I want to say to you, about what you can do. About what we can do. But you’re still so young, and I don’t want to frighten you.
I used to fear my ability—hate it even. I used to wish I’d been born like everyone else, unable to sense the death all around me. I prayed for nothing more than to not pass this trait on to my children . . . on to you.
But I know better now. I know that this . . . this gift is part of what makes me who I am. That being different is never a bad thing. I’ve learned that unique is something to be treasured, to be valued.
I have no idea if this letter will ever find you, but if it does, I want to tell you to hold your gift close. To cherish it. And if the opportunity arises, to use it. Help others with what you can do; because you can help others, I just know it . . . even if I wasn’t able to find the way myself.
You, my dear, have something special. Something important. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Forever,
Grandma Louise
Violet folded the note and tucked it inside the pages of the diary where she kept the photograph of the Circle of Seven. She’d found the letter when she’d been repacking the box, poking out from beneath one of the cardboard flaps . . . hidden from view.
She wasn’t sure why, but the letter from her grandmother did
n’t make her misty-eyed or nostalgic, the way it probably should have. Instead she felt empowered.
Her grandmother understood her like no one ever would. Her grandmother was telling her, even after everything she’d been through with the Circle, to find a way to make her ability useful if she could.
And Violet could.
She picked up her phone and pressed Call.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Jay asked, zipping his jacket all the way up to his chin.
The temperatures had dropped quickly, plummeting from brisk to downright chilly in the past several days, making it clear that summer was long gone as autumn bore down on them with a vengeance. Violet watched his breath as it hit the air in a cloud and then dissipated once more.
“Why? Are you scared?” she challenged, only half teasing.
She couldn’t help herself. She liked watching the way his pink scar puckered when he scoffed at the idea that he was afraid of being left alone in the cemetery, even though she’d only be a few steps away.
“Me? Scared of a few ghosts? Are you kidding?” His breath gusted again as his chest puffed up. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of a hero around these parts. I singlehandedly caught a killer, you know?”
Violet shoved him, laughing at his stupid joke, one she’d heard about a million times already. And then she saw the man in the trench coat picking his way among the gravestones, searching for one in particular. “Stay here,” she told him, slipping out from behind the tree. “I’ll be right back.”
Instead of going to him, Violet went to their designated meeting spot and waited. Dr. Lee was just a few steps behind her, and he glanced down at the grave markers Violet stood in front of.
He shook his head. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
Violet looked too . . . at the markers for the Bowman family. Their imprints were at rest now that they were buried. She could see through the beautiful array of colors, and could barely smell the hint of coffee that hit her nose as she’d approached. She couldn’t see Veronica’s—the girl’s—echo but she was sure that if she could, it would have been the halo.
She stood in front of Tyler’s grave, though. The only one missing an echo altogether.
It didn’t matter—Violet knew he was at peace too. He was with his family.
As it turned out, Grady had been holding the key to the connection between Veronica Bowman and Evan’s unusual “family” all along. It had been on the iPod the police had recovered at his house. It was the band, Safe Word. Veronica had become obsessed with their songs, and had started slipping out to the clubs to see them perform live.
It had been at one of those clubs where Evan noticed her in the first place.
“What’s this about, Violet?” Dr. Lee asked, getting right to the point.
“I want you to know I’m staying. On the team.” She turned to watch him from the corner of her eye. “Without the threats. I’m doing this because I want to.”
A satisfied grin tugged at his lips, making him look far too smug. “What changed your mind?”
She closed her eyes. “Everything,” she answered. “But not you. It wasn’t because of anything you said or did. It was . . . other things. I still don’t trust you, and if I find out the Center is doing anything shady, I will expose all of you.”
He tilted his head, appraising her. “Is that it? Did you bring me all the way down here to tell me that?”
Violet squeezed her hands, her palms sweaty. Her heart fluttered, but not in a good way, and her vocal cords were paralyzed.
Dr. Lee took her silence as his cue to leave.
But Violet had one more thing, and she chased after him. “Wait!” she shouted, freeing her voice at last. She reached into her pocket and fumbled for something. She remembered that day at the park, not so long ago, when he’d come to her with an ultimatum . . . a warning. Now it was her turn. “There is one last thing.” Her fingers closed around the business card she’d looked at a hundred times since that day at the hospital, and she threw it on the ground between them as he turned back to face her. She bared her teeth at him, caution laced in her voice. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I’m warning you, stay the hell away from my friend.”
And then she swiveled around on her heel and left him standing there.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As a writer, I love all of my books. But this one became even more personal for me when I lost my grandmother—my granny Kelly—while I was writing it. During the scenes in which Violet is reading her grandmother’s journals, I found myself thinking of my own grandmother and feeling that sense of loss alongside my character.
Rather than live the way that was expected of a woman of her generation, my grandmother traveled, fished, painted, and, to be honest, cursed like a sailor. She was tough and determined, and raised her daughters and granddaughters to be as strong-willed as she was. So to my granny, thank you . . . and I miss you enormously.
I also want to thank the students from the real-life White River High School, who have tolerated me putting their school through the wringer—I’ve made them targets of serial killers and caused them all kinds of mayhem. Thanks too for not complaining that I gave your school lockers in my books . . . and yes, I know your school doesn’t actually have them, but I really, really wanted my White River to have lockers!
To those of us who grew up in Kent, Auburn, or anywhere in the vicinity of the real Beer Bottle Beach on the Green River . . . thanks for letting me move it to Buckley for Violet and her friends!
I also need to thank those people who are responsible for making all my dreams come true in the first place: Laura Rennert (the best agent ever!); Farrin Jacobs, Sarah Landis, Catherine Wallace, Kari Sutherland, Hallie Patterson, Cara Petrus (for this breathtaking cover!), and the entire team at HarperCollins who have worked on the Body Finder series (I love you guys!); Gretchen Hirsch, Marisa Russell, Melissa Bruno, Sasha Illingsworth (for all the other amazing covers), and the rest who are no longer at Harper but who still played incredible roles in these books (I can’t thank you enough!).
I also have the most awesome go-to team when it comes to research, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank Bryan Jeter, John McDonald, and Randy Strozyk for letting me pester you with my outrageous hypothetical scenarios—you guys truly are the best! To Erin Gross for your continued support with the Body Finder Novels fan site . . . and for being awesome! To Shelli for letting me brainstorm and whine. To Amanda and Tammy, for always helping me come up with names when I feel like I’ve hit a creative wall. To the Hildebrand family for all of the terrible things you let me do to your family members in this book. To Carol, Tamara, Shawn, Karma, Candy, Pam, and Susan, for never bothering to be quiet (this is why we’ll be friends forever) . . . and to Jacqueline for shushing them anyway. And to Linnie, Annette, and Gaylene, sometimes when I’m writing about Violet and her friends, I’m reminded of the way we were in high school . . . I love you all so much!
Lastly, to my family, I’m not sure what more I can say, except to thank you again and again and again for being here for me. So, thank you. Again.
About the Author
KIMBERLY DERTING is the author of THE BODY FINDER, DESIRES OF THE DEAD, and THE LAST ECHO, which are as much coming-of-age romances as they are paranormal thrillers, as well as the dystopic fantasy THE PLEDGE. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, where the gloomy weather is ideal for writing anything dark and creepy. Her three beautiful (and often mouthy) children serve as an endless source of inspiration and frequently find things they say buried in the pages of their mother’s books. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyderting.com.
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Also by Kimberly Derting
THE BODY FINDER
DESIRES OF THE DEAD
THE LAST ECHO
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Credits
Cover art © 2013 by Gustavo Mar
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Copyright
Dead Silence
Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Derting
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