She wasn’t afraid, though. Not here. Never here.
A familiar white noise, the static of so many dead animals who had once called out to Violet to find them, melded together in a peaceful resonance after their bodies were laid to rest.
She stepped inside the chicken-wire fencing meant to keep out scavengers who dared to disturb her lost souls. She knelt in the dirt, beside a spot that had already been dug, a shallow grave waiting to be filled. There was always a space ready in Violet’s graveyard.
She shivered as she opened the box, unable to ignore the hostile temperature enveloping her.
“. . . I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
She tipped the box, letting the small, stiffened corpse drop gently into the soft dirt at the bottom of the grave. She bit her lip, trying not to imagine this poor animal’s death. Trying not to cry as another white flash split the night.
She knelt down, reaching for a pile of soil that waited alongside the superficial hole in the earth, and scooped it with her hands, piling it over the lifeless cat within.
Amen. She mouthed the word without sound.
When she was finished, she sat back on her heels. She could feel the sense of peace washing over her already.
The cat was releasing itself . . . releasing her.
Violet picked up the box and hurried back toward her house without looking around again. She left the empty box outside as she closed the door behind her, making her way back up to her room.
She washed and changed quickly, trying to banish the disturbing sensation that lingered, making her shiver long after the wintry cold had faded. The unsettling awareness that someone had left her a message tonight.
But what was the message supposed to be?
And just who had left it?
Wrath
The girl stood there, hidden among the trees, watching Violet. She was glad now that she’d dressed in black—the heavy black coat, the ski mask that covered her face, the dark gloves—not just for warmth but to cloak her from sight.
She really hadn’t expected to hide within the natural cover provided by the thick bushes and trees surrounding Violet’s house; she’d simply expected to get in and get out.
Drop off her “gift” for Violet and leave.
But Violet had surprised her by coming outside in the middle of the night. And when she had, the girl had stood frozen in place, unable to move . . . or even to think clearly.
She’d been afraid that Violet might see her there. But she hadn’t.
Instead, Violet was fixated on something else, giving her time to react, to escape deeper into the shelter of the woods, where she could watch without fear of discovery.
Before Violet’s appearance, she’d worried that she was going too far. That the message was too harsh. But seeing Violet, watching her, incensed her all over again. The anger she felt was beyond reason . . . beyond explanation . . . beyond control.
She wasn’t sure how Violet had known where to look, but somehow she’d found the box. And when Violet had glanced in her direction, searching the trees, the girl had dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, hugging herself tightly as she waited to be caught.
But Violet never found her.
And, as she lifted her head again, she realized that none of Violet’s reactions were what she’d hoped for. Or expected. Instead of the fear, she saw anger. Instead of revulsion over the mutilated animal, Violet seemed . . . calm.
Suddenly, she wished she’d done more. Upped the ante.
She wanted to see Violet scared. Afraid. Terrified.
Maybe next time.
As she watched Violet carry the box around to the back of her house, she thought she saw Violet’s lips moving beneath the diffused light cast by the moon high above. But who would she be talking to? Herself? The dead cat?
And then Violet moved around to the back of her house and out of sight.
The girl lingered there, in the woods, wondering what Violet might be doing. Wondering if this was her chance to escape, but too curious to see what Violet did next. And too angry to go just yet.
She hated Violet. More at that moment than ever before.
More, even, than she hated herself.
When Violet came back, she was still carrying the box, but it was empty now. She could tell by the way Violet carried it, no longer embracing it against her chest but rather letting it hang loosely at her side as she walked.
Where had the cat gone? Had Violet dumped it somewhere? Thrown it away? Buried it?
When Violet rushed through the yard to her house, she didn’t even look around her.
At that moment, the girl thought about making her presence known. She thought about what it would be like to hurt Violet just for the satisfaction of witnessing the expressions she so longed to see.
She imagined striking Violet with her bare hands. Clawing at her eyes. Ripping her hair from her scalp.
Fear. Terror.
She imagined slashing Violet’s face.
Begging. Pleading.
She imagined breaking her neck.
Surrender.
The daydreams were so sweet.
And then Violet closed the door to her house, leaving her with nothing but her fantasies.
Chapter 10
“So why do you think he hasn’t asked me out?” Chelsea asked, unwrapping another piece of gum and stuffing it in her mouth. It was her third piece.
“Shhh . . .” Mrs. Hertzog warned, placing a finger to her lips.
Chelsea frowned at the librarian but lowered her voice as she leaned across the table and repeated her question. “Mike Russo? How come he hasn’t asked me out yet?”
Violet already knew who “he” was without Chelsea qualifying her question with either a first—or a last—name. Mike was all Chelsea wanted to talk about lately, but today, of all days, Violet didn’t mind. It kept her from thinking of . . . other things.
Violet hadn’t told anyone about the cat. Not Jay, not her parents. No one.
Somehow, she felt changed by it. It had become her dirty little secret.
Whenever she thought about standing there, shivering from the cold and looking into the box that entombed a dead cat, Violet realized that her ability to search out the discarded dead had been used against her. And the person responsible probably hadn’t even realized it.
Whoever had left that cat couldn’t have known that it would wake Violet. And they had no way of knowing that the echo emitted by the cat would also be imprinted on them, a mark they would carry forever. That meant Violet would know who had done this, that they wouldn’t be able to hide from her.
And she assumed that whoever had done this was someone she knew. Why else would someone place a dead cat beside her car? She was bound to discover who it was sooner or later.
The problem was, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know who had left it. Or why. Sometimes not knowing was better. Easier. And maybe even safer.
But if someone could kill an innocent animal to deliver a message, or a warning, then how far would they be willing to go to convey their true feelings?
She knew she should be afraid for herself. But she was worried for more than just herself now.
She was worried for Carl. For her friends. And for her family.
“I already told you, Chels, give him time,” Violet whispered back, managing to stay decibels quieter than Chelsea, who was physically incapable of silence. She and Mrs. Hertzog had a standing feud over the matter. “Has he called you at all?” Violet asked, even though she already knew the answer. Chelsea would have exploded with joy if he had.
“No,” Chelsea answered glumly, and then she snapped her gum, earning herself another scowl from the librarian. She ignored the scolding look. “And I don’t get it. I’ve given him my best material, including the I’m-easy-and-you-can-totally-have-me bedroom eyes. What’s he waiting for?” Chelsea stopped talking and dropped her face into her open history book. “Look out, crazy librarian at nine o’clock.”
“Miss Morrison, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to be working? Your teacher sent you down here to study, not to socialize.” She smiled sweetly at Violet. Chelsea’s gaze narrowed as she glared, first at Violet and then at Mrs. Hertzog. But, wisely, she kept her mouth shut. “If you need help finding reference material,” Mrs. Hertzog offered, glancing over the answers on Chelsea’s paper, “I’d be happy to point you in the right direction. . . .”
Chelsea swallowed, and Violet suspected she’d just swallowed her gum, since gum was a library no-no, before answering. “No, thanks. I think I’ve got it covered.” She smiled, trying for sweet but getting closer to sour. “Unless you have any information on the Russo family?”
“What Russo family?” the librarian challenged, as if it were highly unlikely that Chelsea was really interested in “research.”
She was, just not the kind of research she could do at the library. And Chelsea wasn’t the only one interested in Mike Russo.
Violet thought about her meeting with the lady from the FBI, and wondered what Sara Priest had been fishing for. Violet couldn’t help thinking that her interest in Mike hadn’t simply been random.
“Never mind, Mrs. Hertzog, don’t worry about it. You don’t have the information I need.” Chelsea smirked at the woman and then pretended to salute her, a dismissal if Violet had ever seen one.
To her credit, Mrs. Hertzog didn’t react to Chelsea’s lack of respect. Instead she issued a veiled warning: “All right, but if you change your mind, I’ll be right over there.”
Chelsea’s eyes narrowed as she watched the librarian walk away. “Thanks a lot, Violet. Aren’t you supposed to have my back or something?”
“For what? The big throw down? Were you planning to fight her? Besides, she likes me. Why should I get on her bad side just because you are?”
“As long as you guys are still tight, right, Vi?” Chelsea drawled. “Seriously, though, I need to figure out a way to get Mike Russo to notice me.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s noticed you.”
“You know what I mean.” Chelsea huffed. “By the way, what’s up with the uptight lady and the hot dude at your car yesterday? And by ‘hot,’ I mean dark and dangerous, of course. Please tell me they’re some distant relatives come to tell you you’ve inherited a family fortune or something. I could use some good news.” Chelsea crossed her arms over her chest, watching Violet closely.
Violet felt her stomach tighten. It was weird enough that Sara Priest had asked her about Mike. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Chelsea had just read her mind. Why else would she be asking Violet about Sara and the boy now?
Regardless of why, Violet did not want to talk about her little chat with the FBI.
She decided there was only one way to change the topic.
She sighed. Thankfully, Chelsea’s mind had been pretty one-track lately. “So, about Mike. What do you know so far?”
Chelsea perked up, leaning forward as she heard the magic word: Mike. “Nothing useful. He has a sister, what’s-her-name in the tenth grade.”
“Megan,” Violet volunteered.
“If you say so. I know they live with their dad, Ed, and that he’s a mechanic at Craft’s Auto Repair off Highway 410.” Chelsea chewed her lip. “I also know that Mike’s in AP English and history, he only missed two days last year, and he doesn’t play any sports. Oh, and they moved around a lot. Four schools in three different states in the past two years.”
Mrs. Hertzog took two steps in their direction, her eyebrows raised in a warning to Chelsea.
Chelsea mouthed, Okay, and waved the woman away again.
When the librarian went back to her post near the entrance, Violet stared at Chelsea, not sure if she felt admiration or disgust. “How do you know all that about them? Are you actually spying on him now?”
“Not spying exactly.” Chelsea cleared her throat. “But I may have gotten a peek at his school records. Andrew Lauthner’s been working in the office during study hall for extra credit. He has a hard time telling me no.”
That was an understatement; Andrew Lauthner was the lone member of Chelsea’s personal fan club. He’d been waiting for Chelsea to notice him since the third grade.
Violet shook her head as she went back to work on her assignment. “I don’t know what to tell you; you already know way more than I do.”
Chelsea slouched in her chair. “Well, do me a favor and try to find out something? I really wanna figure out a way to get him to play tongue tag with me when we all go to the movies this weekend, maybe even get to second base.” Chelsea didn’t need Violet to say anything; she was on a roll now. “It’d be better if it were just the two of us, since Jay’s always hogging Mike’s attention, but since I haven’t been able to make that happen, can you at least talk to your boyfriend about not derailing my plans this time? I really need this date.”
“I’ll do what I can, Chels,” Violet offered reluctantly. “But I’m not making any promises.”
Silently, however, Violet agreed with Chelsea, and she hoped as much as Chelsea did that Jay wouldn’t monopolize Mike’s time this weekend.
Chelsea was something else. Like an unstoppable force of nature. Similar to a hurricane or a tornado. Or a pit bull.
Violet admired that about her.
And, in this instance, Chelsea had proven to be nothing less than formidable.
So when Jay had mentioned earlier in the week that they might be able to go to the movies over the weekend, Chelsea held him to it. A time and a place were chosen. And word spread.
And, somehow, Chelsea managed to unravel it all.
She still wanted the Saturday night plans; she just didn’t want the crowd that came with them. She’d decided it should be more of a “double date.” With Mike.
Except Mike would never see it coming.
By the time the bell rang at the end of lunch on Friday, everyone had agreed to meet up for the seven o’clock showing the next night. But when they split up to go to their classes, Chelsea set her own plan into motion. She began to separate the others from the pack and, one by one, they all fell.
She started with Andrew Lauthner. Poor Andrew didn’t know what hit him.
“Hey, Andy, did you hear?”
From the look on his face, he didn’t hear anything, other than that Chelsea—his Chelsea—was talking to him. Out of the blue. Violet needed to get to class, but she was dying to see what Chelsea had up her sleeve, so she stuck it out instead.
“What?” His huge frozen grin looked like it had been plastered there and dried overnight.
Chelsea’s expression was apologetic, something that may have actually been difficult for her to pull off. “The movie’s been canceled. Plans are off.” She stuck out her lower lip in a disappointed pout.
“But I thought . . .” He seemed confused.
So was Violet.
“. . . didn’t we just make the plans at lunch?” he asked.
“I know.” Chelsea managed to sound as surprised as he did. “But you know how Jay is, always talking out his ass. He forgot to mention that he has to work tomorrow night and can’t make it.” She looked at Violet and said, again apologetically, “Sorry you had to hear that, Vi.”
Violet just stood there gaping and thinking that she should deny what Chelsea was saying, but she wasn’t even sure where to start. She knew Jules would have done it. Where was Jules when she needed her?
“What about everyone else?” Andrew asked, still clinging to hope.
Chelsea shrugged and placed a sympathetic hand on Andrew’s arm. “Nope. No one else can make it either. Mike’s got family plans. Jules has a date. Claire has to study. And Violet here is grounded.” She draped her arm a
round Violet’s shoulder. “Right, Vi?”
Violet was saved from having to answer, since Andrew didn’t seem to need one. Apparently, if Chelsea said it, it was the gospel truth. But the pathetic look on his face made Violet want to hug him right then and there.
“Oh,” he finally said. And then, “Well, maybe next time.”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course,” Chelsea called over her shoulder, already dragging Violet away from the painful scene.
“Geez, Chels, break his heart, why don’t you? Why didn’t you just say you have some rare disease or something?” Violet made a face at her friend. “Not cool.”
Chelsea scoffed. “He’ll be fine. Besides, if I said ‘disease,’ he would have made me some chicken soup and offered to give me a sponge bath or something.” She wrinkled her nose. “Eww.”
The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way, with a few escalations: Family obligations. Big tests to study for. House arrests. Chelsea made excuses to nearly everyone who’d planned on going, including Claire. She was relentless.
By Saturday night, it was just the four of them . . . Violet, Jay, Chelsea, and, of course, Mike. It was everything Chelsea had dreamed of, everything she’d worked for.
They’d decided to drive together . . . in Jay’s car, obviously. When they stopped to pick up Mike, Violet started to get out so she could climb in back with Chelsea, giving Mike’s longer legs the front seat, but Jay reached out and caught her wrist.
“What are you doing? I want you to sit with me.” His fingers moved to lace through hers as he drew her back inside. “Mike can sit in back.”
Violet felt herself blush with satisfaction.
Mike came out of his house and jumped down the porch without ever touching the steps. Behind the darkened curtains, the television flickered.
“Here he comes!” Chelsea squealed, sounding like a little girl as she bounced up and down in the backseat, shaking the entire car. She clapped her hands with excitement.
Violet pulled her seat as far forward as she could to give Mike some extra room. He’d need it if he was going to be confined back there with Chelsea.
Desires of the Dead Page 8
