Jay jumped up from beside her. “She’s kidding,” he blurted out. “We weren’t doing anything.”
Her uncle Stephen stopped where he was and eyed them both carefully. Violet could’ve sworn she felt Jay squirming, even though every single muscle in his body was frozen in place. Violet smiled at her uncle, trying her best to look guilty-as-charged.
Finally he raised his eyebrows, every bit the suspicious police officer. “Your parents asked me to stop by and check on you on my way home. They won’t be back until late. Can I trust the two of you here . . . alone?”
“Of course you can—” Jay started to say.
“Probably not—” Violet answered at the same time. And then she caught a glimpse of the horror-stricken expression on Jay’s face, and she laughed. “Relax, Uncle Stephen, we’re fine. We were just doing homework.”
Her uncle looked at the pile of discarded books on the table in front of the couch. Not one of them was open. He glanced skeptically at Violet but didn’t say a word.
“We may have gotten a little distracted,” she responded, and again she saw Jay shifting nervously.
After several warnings, and a promise from Violet that she would lock the doors behind him, Uncle Stephen finally left the two of them alone again.
Jay was glaring at Violet when she peeked at him as innocently as she could manage. “Why would you do that to me?”
“Why do you care what he thinks we’re doing?” Violet had been trying to get Jay to admit his new hero worship of her uncle for months, but he was too stubborn—or maybe he honestly didn’t realize it himself—to confess it to her.
“Because, Violet,” he said dangerously, taking a threatening step toward her. But his scolding was ruined by the playful glint in his eyes. “He’s your uncle, and he’s the police chief. Why poke the bear?”
Violet took a step back, away from him, and he matched it, moving toward her. He was stalking her around the coffee table now, and Violet couldn’t help giggling as she retreated.
But it was too late for her to escape. Jay was faster than she was, and his arms captured her before she’d ever had a chance. Not that she’d really tried.
He hauled her back down onto the couch, the two of them falling heavily into the cushions, and this time he pinned her beneath him.
“Stop it!” she shrieked, not meaning a single word. He was the last person in the world she wanted to get away from.
“I don’t know . . .” he answered hesitantly. “I think you deserve to be punished.” His breath was balmy against her cheek, and she found herself leaning toward him rather than away. “Maybe we should do some more homework.”
Homework had been their code word for making out before they’d realized that they hadn’t been fooling anyone.
But Jay was true to his word, especially his code word, and his lips settled over hers. Violet suddenly forgot that she was pretending to break free from his grip. Her frail resolve crumbled. She reached out, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulled him closer to her.
Jay growled from deep in his throat. “Okay, homework it is.”
He pulled her against him, until they were lying face-to-face, stretched across the length of the couch. It wasn’t long before she was restless, her hands moving impatiently, exploring him. She shuddered when she felt his fingers slip beneath her shirt and brush over her bare skin. He stroked her belly and higher, the skin of his hands rough against her soft flesh. His thumb brushed the base of her rib cage, making her breath catch.
And then, like so many times before, he stopped, abruptly drawing back. He shifted only inches, but those inches felt like miles, and Violet felt the familiar surge of frustration.
He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. Violet understood perfectly. They’d gone too far. Again. But Violet was frustrated, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore her disappointment. She knew they couldn’t play this unsatisfying game forever.
“So you’re going to Seattle tomorrow?” He used the question to fill the rift between them, but his voice shook and Violet was glad he wasn’t totally unaffected.
She wasn’t as quick to pretend that everything was okay, especially when what she really wanted to do was to rip his shirt off and unbutton his jeans.
But they’d talked about this. And, time and time again, they’d decided that they needed to be sure. One hundred percent. Because once they crossed that line . . .
She and Jay had been best friends since the first grade, and up until last fall that’s all they’d ever been. Now that she was in love with him, she couldn’t imagine losing him because they made the wrong decision.
Or made it too soon.
She decided to let Jay have his small talk. For now.
“Yeah, Chelsea wants to go down to the waterfront and maybe do some shopping. It’s easier to be around her when it’s just the two of us. You know, when she’s not always . . . on.”
“You mean when she’s not picking on someone?”
“Exactly.”
Jay’s brow furrowed, and for a moment Violet wondered what he was thinking. Then he smiled at her as he tucked his hand behind his head, getting comfortable again. His eyes glittered mischievously, reminding Violet that he was still her best friend. “You know she made me a list, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“A list. Chelsea made me a list of questions to ask Mike.”
Violet laughed, pulling herself up. It was too ridiculous to believe. But it was Chelsea, so of course it was true.
“What did you do with it? You didn’t give it to him, did you?” Violet asked, her eyes wide with shock.
Jay sat up too and grinned, and Violet was sure that he had. And then he shook his head. “Nah. I told her if she really wanted the answers, she’d have to give it to him herself.”
Violet relaxed back into the couch. “Did she?”
Jay shrugged. “I dunno. You never know with Chelsea.” He leaned forward, watching Violet closely as he ran his thumb down the side of her cheek. “Anyway,” he said, switching the subject, “I get off work at six tomorrow; maybe we can hook up after that.” He moved closer, grinning. “And you can tell me how much you missed me.”
He kissed her, at first quickly. Then the kiss deepened, and she heard him groan. This time, when he pulled back, there was indecision in his eyes.
Violet wanted to say something sarcastic and sharp-witted to lighten the mood, but with Jay staring at her like that, any hope of finding a clever response was lost. She could feel herself disappearing into the depths of that uncertain look.
She ignored the common sense that warned her not to lean in for another kiss. She much preferred giving in to that other part of her. The part that wanted more, the part that told her: Don’t stop.
And when Jay didn’t back away either, she realized that she wasn’t the only one who was disregarding logic tonight.
Her heart skipped beats, fluttering madly, as their lips finally touched.
Chapter 2
Violet was sitting at the kitchen table when her dad came down, already dressed for work. According to the clock, it was only five fifteen. On a Saturday.
“I made coffee.” Violet kept her voice low, even though there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d wake her mom at this hour.
Her dad ignored her comment and instead sat beside her. “What’s the matter, Vi? Couldn’t sleep?” He frowned, looking even more serious than usual. “Was it the dream again?”
Violet gritted her teeth. Of course it was the dream. It was always the dream—a faceless man chasing her—waking her night after night, a scream wedged painfully, noiselessly, against the hollow of her throat.
She hated the dream.
“Third night this week,” she sighed. “At least I almost made it till morning this time.”
Her father pressed his hand over hers. It was a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You’re safe, baby. No one can hurt you now.” He squeezed tighter, trying to convince her. “Y
ou and Jay, you’re both safe.”
“I know it’s just a dream.” She shrugged, drawing her hand away. She took another bite of her cereal, smiling weakly and pretending that she believed her own words.
If only it didn’t feel so real. . . .
But she knew he was right; it was just a nightmare, nothing more. It didn’t mean anything.
Besides, it wasn’t like she was psychic. Psychics had abilities that were actually useful; they could predict the future, see things before they happened.
Violet’s skill was something else altogether: She could only locate the dead. And only after they’d been murdered.
It was a painful ability to have—one that she’d been able to use once, when a pair of serial killers had hunted girls in the area. But, of course, she hadn’t been able to save their victims. She had only helped locate the killers, to stop them from killing again.
Yes, maybe she was special, but if she’d had her way, she would have chosen to be psychic. Or, better yet, completely normal.
Unfortunately, Violet was never given a choice in the matter.
Chelsea was only a half hour late. Not bad by Chelsea standards.
She honked from out in the driveway, a long, inconsiderate blare. Even Chelsea’s car was obnoxious.
Violet made an apologetic face to her mom before heading out the door.
Chelsea honked a second time as Violet jumped down the front porch steps.
“Nice, Chels. What if my parents were still sleeping?” Violet accused as she slid inside the car’s warm interior.
“Yeah, right. Your dad’s like a farmer. He’s the early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of guy. And I really doubt your mom sleeps past ten, even on a Saturday.” She gave Violet a sideways glance and raised her eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”
“Not this morning,” Violet admitted. “But you could have been.”
But it was pointless to argue; Chelsea was already turning up her stereo.
Late January was not the usual tourist season downtown, especially not on Seattle’s waterfront. In the summertime, it was bustling with activity: shoppers, tourists, impromptu street concerts, artists, and restaurants all squeezed in tightly along the piers. This time of year there was still activity, but the crowds were anemic, people nestled inside their warm winter coats and clutching umbrellas beneath the low-lying gray clouds.
Chelsea didn’t seem to notice the weather or the lack of fanfare on the streets. “We should totally take a ferry out to one of the islands,” she begged breathlessly.
Violet grinned. “All right. Which one should we take?”
Violet could remember riding the ferries with her parents when she was little. They would buy her hot cocoa from the concession stand and then huddle up at the railings and watch the choppy black waves of the Puget Sound.
Chelsea jumped up and down, the enthusiasm on her face making her look younger, less jaded. “Let’s just take the first one we can get!”
Violet laughed. This was why she liked hanging out with Chelsea by herself; she was a different person when no one else was watching.
According to the schedule, there was an island run due to leave in a little over an hour. They bought their tickets and wandered around the piers before it was time to board.
They stopped at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, a tourist favorite crammed with freakshow oddities, where Chelsea bought a necklace with a creepy shrunken head dangling from the chain. And before they left, they asked the guy behind the counter to take a picture of the two of them standing in front of a petrified pig that was on display.
Once they were outside, it was just starting to drizzle, and Violet tugged the hood of her coat over her head.
The feeling, the quivering vibrations, struck her long before the sound.
That unmistakable shiver beneath her skin was followed immediately by the inexorable sensation of being summoned, as if something reached into the very core of her and tugged. She could no more ignore the pull than she could deny what it was.
Something dead was calling to her.
The noise that chased the vibrations, reaching her at last, was distinctly out of place along the edge of the Puget Sound’s rough winter waters.
In the summertime it might have found an anonymous place among the street performers who set up along the piers to attract tourists. But now, in the dead of winter, the instrumental sound of a harp, like the one Violet imagined angels might play, was at odds with her surroundings. It would have been soothing—the acoustic whispers—had it not been for the fact that it signaled the presence of a body . . . human or otherwise.
Violet was rooting for otherwise.
“Where are we going?” Chelsea asked, piercing Violet’s concentration as she struggled to hold on to the precarious sounds reaching out to her.
Violet hadn’t even realized that she’d been walking away from the waterfront shops. She paused, lifting her hand. “I think I heard something,” she explained absently.
She thought about resisting the urge to follow the sound, just ignoring it, especially here . . . with Chelsea, who knew nothing about her friend’s “gift.” Besides, what did she think she would do once she found the body that beckoned her? There was no place to bury it, and she certainly couldn’t take it with her.
Sometimes when she was near a body, she felt drawn toward it, compelled to find it.
Usually when Violet found an animal, the casualty of a feral predator, she could take care of it herself. She had her own graveyard. Grim, yes, but a necessity for any girl with the ability to locate the dead.
If it turned out to be a person, however, that was another story altogether.
Once an echo called to her, and before the body was suitably buried, no matter how long or short that span might be, Violet remained unsettled. It wasn’t until the body was given a final resting place of its own that the echo would fade, falling into the backdrop of her consciousness, never disappearing altogether but weakening, becoming something less . . . haunting.
On that day, Violet could breathe again.
Instead of trying to resist the pull she felt now, she heard herself saying, “Stay here, Chels. I’ll be right back.” She didn’t wait for her friend to answer as she wandered away.
It took a moment for Violet to locate the direction again, as the sound drew her away from the piers.
It was farther than she’d expected, and she was only moderately aware that the scenery around her was changing dramatically. Beneath her skin, the stringed harp continued to strum.
On the other side of the road, across the street from the waters of the Puget Sound, she walked past the charming antique shops and faded brick facades of old Seattle. She moved toward the shipping docks ahead of her. Tall chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire appeared, in stark contrast to the cobblestone sidewalks and worn timbers of the wharves she left behind. Large cracks split the uneven concrete she trod upon.
Signs hanging from the fencing read: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
Behind the chain-link, huge steel shipping containers were stacked on top of one another, end to end, creating impenetrable fortifications, shielding from view piles of industrial-grade pallets and an army of forklifts. Massive red steel cranes stood high above the containers. Several cargo ships floated in the waters beyond.
Seagulls, some vivid white and some the color of dirty dishwater, landed intermittently on the grounds, scouring for scraps of food.
It was Saturday, and the shipyards were practically deserted, with only a few cars parked in the outer lots. But the large central gate stood open.
Violet slipped inside without notice. She was too preoccupied to care if anyone spotted her. The gentle sound of the harps grew stronger until the vibrations were nearly painful and Violet found herself gritting her teeth. It was compelling, this echo . . . this death. And Violet was so close.
She moved around a towering row of cargo containers that were painted in dull shades of red, blue, and steel gray.
She stopped, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone.
The skin at the back of her neck tightened, prickling. Someone was behind her; someone was watching her.
She held her breath, afraid to turn around. And even more afraid not to. She’d felt this before, this sensation of being stalked. Every muscle in her body was strained and tense.
But she had no choice; she had to find out who was there.
One . . . two . . .
Before she reached three, she felt someone grab her arm, gripping her tightly.
Violet jerked, her heart crashing inside her chest.
And Chelsea shrieked, worry clouding her face as Violet turned to stare at her, her eyes wide. Chelsea’s hand shot up to cover her own mouth.
“Chels, what the hell? I thought I told you to wait!” Violet hissed, dragging Chelsea closer to the containers, where no one would be able to see them.
Chelsea reached for Violet’s hand. “What did you think you heard, Vi?”
Violet lifted a cautionary finger to her lips, warning Chelsea to be silent as she moved in front of her, concentrating once more on the sound of the harp. She could hear Chelsea breathing heavily directly behind her, and she wondered if the other girl was afraid. . . . It felt like she was afraid. But Violet didn’t pause to find out.
Violet was confused. She was in the right place; the sound was practically within her now in the same way the reverberating echo was, beating soft strings from inside her chest and spreading out to her head . . . her fingers . . . her toes.
But there was nothing here.
Only shipping containers stranded on a vast expanse of blacktop. All solid. And sealed.
She looked up at the red cargo container in front of her; its corrugated steel walls were impassable.
She moved around it, reaching out to brush her fingertips along the rough surface, examining the faultless seams and feeling the sound beneath her scalp. Her skin prickled. She finally found the door of the shipping vessel, but it was apparent that it was not an opening Violet could access. It was sealed tight, a large, rusty padlock hanging securely from a thick metal loop.
Desires of the Dead Page 2
