She found herself chatting with the little kids—her cousins—more often than not, mostly because they didn’t need anything real, anything deep, from her in return. They were risk-free, and Violet preferred it that way.
Her mom had gotten around the no-balloons-or-streamers rule on a technicality. Obviously, Violet had not been clear enough, and she realized that she should have been broader in her statement, making it a no-decorations rule instead. But since she hadn’t, and since her mom had taken her at her word, the table—and the room—was overflowing with flowers and candles.
The result was dramatic. And even though Violet wanted to protest, to claim that her wishes had been ignored, that the spirit—if not the letter—of her request had been violated, she couldn’t.
Maybe it was just the effects of the first real food she’d eaten in days, or maybe it was the lack of sleep, but even she had to admit that it was beautiful. It made Violet feel better to be surrounded by it, and by her family, on her birthday.
“Thank you,” she said, almost to herself, as she kept her eyes down, concentrating on her plate.
The only reason she knew they’d heard her at all was the brief lull in the conversation.
That, and Joshy’s unaffected, knee-jerk response. “You’re welcome.”
Violet smiled as she took another bite of her mashed potatoes.
The conversation continued. There was cake and there were presents. Violet did her best to stay in the moment, to remain focused on the here and now, instead of letting her mind wander to other places.
But it was hard, and she found herself distracted far too often, which was what made it so much worse when they heard a knock at the front door.
Violet’s stomach tightened anxiously. There was no one she wanted to see right now, at least no one who wasn’t already there in her house.
She hated the tangle of sensations, the expectation and the dread. She felt traitorous to herself for even hoping it might be Jay when she’d spent so much time convincing herself that he was the last person she wanted to see. Especially tonight.
Violet glanced around the table, at her mother and father and her aunt and uncle and even at her two little cousins. Everyone seemed as paralyzed as she was.
“I’ll get it.” Her uncle Stephen finally stood up and left the room.
Violet held her breath.
She knew. She already knew it was him. She was afraid to see him, afraid of what it might do to her fragile resolve.
But when her uncle came back into the kitchen, he was alone. And maybe only she noticed it, but she felt herself slump into her chair. She choked on the bitter disappointment that she’d been mistaken and was frustrated with herself for feeling that way.
And then he said the words that Violet had both anticipated and feared. “It’s Jay. He wants to talk to you.”
The air felt black and oily, suffocating her as she sat there. No one spoke as they all remained still, watching her.
She frowned as she looked at her uncle pleadingly and shook her head, unable to give him her answer out loud.
“Are you sure?” he asked calmly, and even though his voice was quiet, it was far too loud in the stark silence of the kitchen. Even the kids had stopped squirming in their seats.
Violet nodded, begging him to understand. But she didn’t need to worry. He didn’t question or second-guess her when she needed him.
When he left the kitchen, her mom and her aunt made polite small talk rather than pretend that they weren’t listening, trying to hear what was going on out at the front door.
But Violet couldn’t sit there and pretend any longer. As soon as she heard the front door close, she excused herself without explanation. “I’m going up to my room,” she said flatly, unapologetically.
Nobody tried to stop her or ask her if she was okay. Her parents would tell her aunt and uncle good-bye for her, and later—much later—when she was feeling more like herself again, she would apologize.
But right now she didn’t have it in her to be polite or to make nice with well-meaning family members. For now, she just wanted to be alone.
She was finished with her birthday.
Violet waited until the house was silent before going downstairs again.
She’d stayed in her room, trying to slip back into that state, the stupor in which she’d dully existed until Jay had arrived at her party, crashing through her poorly constructed composure. But no matter how hard she tried, the feelings were just too strong, and too close to the surface to stuff back down.
So instead she wanted cake. Maybe a good sugar fix could take the edge off.
She crept quietly toward the kitchen, and when she got there, she smiled. Her dad must have known she’d be back down.
On the counter, which had been cleared and cleaned after the party, sat a plate covered in plastic wrap. And beneath the transparent wrap was a gigantic piece of her birthday cake.
Violet felt a rush of emotion, but in a good way. In the very best way.
Next to the plate was a small pink gift bag stuffed with pretty tissue paper. Violet ignored the bag, only briefly eyeing it before going to the fridge to get the milk.
Only when she sat back down in front of the plate and unwrapped the cake did she wonder about the gift sitting beside it.
She thought she’d already opened all her presents, the ones from her parents and from her aunt and uncle, but she must’ve left the party before they’d had the chance to give her this one.
She lifted one bare foot onto the stool and propped her chin against her knee as she took a bite of the cake. It was perfect, exactly what she needed right now. How was it possible that something as simple as a slice of birthday cake could make her feel so much better?
She reached over and fingered the delicate tissue of the present; the iridescent sheen of it sparkled slightly in the faint glow from the light above the stove. Violet smiled again, wondering if the sugar was already hitting her system or if she was just that shallow, if receiving a present wrapped in such a pretty package could really make her this happy.
Shallow, no. But she was still a girl, after all.
She let the paper slip from her fingers long enough to take a gulp of the cold milk, washing down the rich frosting just so she could start all over again. She wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t have any better place to be at the moment.
After she swallowed, she took another bite, licking the frosting from the tines of her fork before finally setting it down on the plate. She pulled the bag toward her and peeked inside.
Whatever was in there was wrapped in the same pretty tissue paper.
She pulled out something small but solid. It fit in the palm of her hand. She removed the shimmering paper, unwrapping it, and inside was a bifold photo frame.
Violet wondered who it was from, admiring the delicate filigree work around the frame’s borders as she opened it. But when she saw the photographs that were already framed inside, she froze.
It was from Jay.
The gift. The photos. He must have left the present with her uncle when he’d stopped by earlier.
Her stomach lurched. She hated him for making her feel so confused, so conflicted.
The pictures inside were from the second grade, each of their school photos from that year. That particular picture of Jay had always been one of Violet’s favorites, mostly because she’d been the one responsible for his hair.
It was the year that the photographer had passed out those little black combs to all the kids as they stood in line, and Violet had decided to “fix” Jay’s hair. She’d led him over to the water fountain and doused his hair and then slicked it down around the crazy, crooked part she’d made with the free comb. She’d thought he looked perfect.
And now, looking at the picture, with his goofy hair and his brand-new oversized grown-up teeth in the front of his mouth, she saw that he did.
In a completely ridiculous way.
It didn’t matter though. The gift would
have been thoughtful and sweet at any other time. But not now.
His gift didn’t change anything.
He didn’t trust her. He didn’t believe her. And that was all that mattered now. He couldn’t take that back by dropping off a present . . . not even an adorable one.
It was the worst possible gift he could have given her at a time like this. And it was exactly the kind of ending Violet should have expected from the worst birthday of her life.
She shoved the frame and the tissue back inside the bag, and she left it, along with the rest of her uneaten cake, on the counter as she stalked back up the stairs.
Stupid, stupid Jay.
Just when she was starting to feel a little bit better, he had to come along and ruin it again.
Sloth
Silence gathered, heralding her favorite time of night.
She crept from her room as noiselessly as she could, the old floorboards creaking on occasion, but she had learned the best places to step to keep them from protesting too loudly. The house was dark, just the way she liked it. And calm.
The living room was cluttered with dirty dishes, and newspapers were spread over nearly every surface. Laundry—dirty and clean—littered the floors, and bottles covered the coffee table in front of the television.
She worked quickly, gathering the newspapers. She carried plates and empty bottles to the kitchen, picking up garbage and folding laundry. She tried not to breathe the sour odor of cheap whiskey that mingled sickeningly with the scent of cigarettes that clung to everything her father touched—his clothing, his skin, his breath. She cringed at the idea of those odors—his odors—touching her.
She told herself to ignore them; the sooner she finished, the sooner she could get back to bed.
She heard a door open down the shadowed hallway, and her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart forgot to beat.
Footsteps padded over the floorboards, obviously not as careful as hers had been, and she winced with every creak she heard.
“What are you doing?” her brother muttered, bleary-eyed, and at last she found her breath. “You can do this in the morning.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him the truth, that she much preferred to do her chores when their father wasn’t around. That in the morning there was still a chance he’d be there. That she might have to see him, to talk to him. “I couldn’t sleep,” she lied.
“At least let me help,” he offered, clearing the countertops and carrying the rest of the dishes to the sink.
She thought about opening up to her brother, about asking him how he could stand this useless version of their father. How he could stand any of it.
But she knew how: He was stronger than she was; he always had been. Even when they were little, she was the one who stumbled and fell, who needed someone to pick her up and brush her off. She was the one who’d needed their mother.
He had always been so independent, so determined to do things on his own. He was smart, social, resilient. Everything she wasn’t.
Sometimes she wondered if he’d even noticed that their mother was gone. That their father was no longer the same man. And that she was damaged . . . broken.
She wanted to talk to him, but she wouldn’t, because she didn’t want him to see how weak she was.
So, instead of talking, she finished the dishes in silence.
As she dried her hands, her brother tied off the kitchen trash bag. “Go on and go to bed.” His smile was genuine, maybe even sweet. “I’ll finish up and turn out the lights.”
She didn’t argue; she just nodded, making her way back down the hallway, watching each step she took, carefully calculating where her foot should fall so as not to wake her father.
Chapter 22
Violet went back to school the next day, mostly because she knew staying home again wouldn’t make her return any easier. She had to get it over with eventually. But being there, under the same roof as Jay, was something along the lines of a carefully choreographed dance. And it wasn’t just Jay she needed to avoid.
Violet didn’t expect it to be difficult to steer clear of Megan. They were in different classes—different grades—and it had never been a problem before. But now Violet was acutely aware that it was always a possibility, that at some point, and when she least expected it, there was a chance they could cross paths.
Jay, however, was a different story. It would have been impossible to avoid him altogether, especially since they shared some of the same classes. But Violet did everything in her power to stay as far away from him as she could.
She arrived to her classes early and asked other students if she could switch seats with them, earning her a strange look or two, but no one actually complained—at least not out loud anyway.
But even with those precautions, Violet still felt uncomfortable. She could feel Jay’s eyes on her, beseeching her to look his way, daring her to ignore him.
And it was hard. Violet wanted to peek, to sneak a glance in his direction, just to see him for a moment. But she couldn’t take the chance. She knew that he’d be waiting, watching for her to slip.
Between classes it was more difficult, and after fourth period Jay was waiting for her in the hallway. It was tough to see him there, face-to-face, hard to remain detached when he seemed so earnest, so sincere. His eyes were tired and red, and he looked defeated even before he spoke.
She tried to brush past him, but he stopped her, grabbing her hand and pulling her back. His touch was like liquid fire against her skin, and Violet cringed at the tingling awareness she felt as his fingers scalded her.
“Violet, please . . . just talk to me.”
But if seeing him had been difficult, hearing his voice was worse. It was raw and full of emotion. He sounded so . . . so miserable.
Like her.
But she couldn’t let him do this to her. She had to be stronger. “Jay, don’t. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.” She wanted to say please, to beg him to walk away in case she wasn’t able to, but she was afraid of that word. It was too soft, and she worried that it might reveal too much of what she felt in that moment, seeing him in person.
She pulled her hand out of his grip. And again she was mad at him for letting her go, despite her words and her actions. She didn’t turn back; she just left him standing there. But she knew he was watching her the same way she knew she wanted to turn around and take it all back.
She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care what he thought, or believed, because she loved him. And she needed him.
But she couldn’t. Because it did matter.
At lunch, Violet sat alone in her car so she wouldn’t risk running into Jay again.
She checked her phone for the thousandth time, to see if Sara Priest had called, and realized she was disappointed when there weren’t any new messages.
There was a part of her, and she wasn’t sure how small that part was anymore, that hoped Sara hadn’t given up on her just yet.
Recently, Violet had time to think about everything that had happened, including how Sara Priest had come into her life . . . through her discovery of the boy. And suddenly things seemed a little clearer, which should have been frightening, disturbing even, considering that the rest of her life was such a mess. Instead it made perfect sense to Violet.
The way she’d reacted the past several months: withdrawing, keeping Jay—and everyone else around her—at arm’s length, afraid to let them get too close.
She’d been so afraid of letting anyone else get hurt because of her.
But now she knew; now she understood it wasn’t her fault. None of it. She couldn’t help what she did, what she was capable of, any more than if she’d been born without the ability to find the dead. It was just a part of who she was.
And Violet didn’t want to ignore that part of her anymore. There was nothing wrong with it . . . with her. In fact, it might even be useful. It had been useful.
And she remembered
how she’d felt before, when she’d searched for a serial killer. Like she had a purpose.
She’d felt good. Valuable. Alive.
She wanted that again. She wanted to find a way to recapture those feelings, to have a reason for her “gift.”
She didn’t want to hide anymore or to have secrets, at least not from those she trusted.
Maybe Rafe was right; maybe Sara Priest could be that solution.
Unless Sara wasn’t interested in Violet any longer. Unless Sara Priest had grown tired of waiting for her to decide.
But Violet couldn’t worry about that yet. She had other things to figure out first.
Like, just who were those she could trust?
Violet waited in her last class for as long as she could before venturing out into the nearly deserted hallways, and then outside, to the parking lot. The grounds were quiet—eerily so—but Violet preferred it that way.
The very idea of bumping into Megan, or just seeing her in passing, made Violet’s skin crawl.
So when Violet heard a voice calling her name, a girl’s voice, her legs suddenly felt weak. Until she recognized the abrasive tone.
Without turning, she smiled to herself as she waited for Chelsea to catch up.
“Hey, didn’t you hear me? God, where’s the freaking fire?” Chelsea complained with exaggerated breathlessness. And then she immediately forgot she was upset. “Hey, you don’t mind if I catch a ride, do you? I rode with Jules this morning, but she’s staying after with Claire to work on their science paper, and I really don’t want to hang out with them in the library. Plus, you know Mrs. Hertzog hates me. She’ll just spend the whole time shushing me.”
“No,” Violet drawled sarcastically, walking toward her car and trying to keep a straight face. “Not you, Chels. You’re as quiet as a mouse.”
“I know, right? She’s crazy.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets, shrugging indifferently as she kept pace with Violet. And then her eyes widened. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper from her right-hand pocket. She held it out to Violet. “Jay asked me to give this to you.”
Desires of the Dead Page 17
