Up ahead of them, the night sky around the cabin was fractured by strange incandescent bursts. But these lights were different from the imprint that radiated from Megan’s father’s skin. These were the kind of lights that everyone could see. Red and blue flashing lights that illuminated the crystalline landscape with hues of indigo and crimson.
The police were already there. But how?
Behind them, the blast of the shotgun cracked sharply, deafeningly. Violet and Jay both startled, jerking reflexively as their feet stopped moving in the snow. On the other side of her, Violet felt nothing from Megan. Not even a flinch. She only stopped moving because they had.
And they knew, all three of them, that any beauty that snowy night had only been an icy illusion.
The cabin before them suddenly ruptured in a frenzy of activity. Where it had been quiet just moments before there was a sudden outpouring as people rushed toward them, erupting through the back door like an agitated swarm. Flashlights bounced along the ground, finding them where they stood, frozen in the night.
In the bustle, Violet recognized uniforms among the crowd. She saw her uncle and her parents, who were running through the snow to reach her.
And, somewhere, amid the moving and shifting faces that swallowed up the three of them—her and Jay and Megan—she saw Sara Priest.
Chapter 34
For Violet, the rest of the night was dream-like and disjointed. So much had happened already, and she still had so many questions.
Her parents had explained to her about the phone calls they’d received from Sara Priest, who had given them the mistaken impression—just as she had when she’d met Violet—that she was with the FBI.
First, apparently, Sara had just left a message for Violet to call her, a message that they had relayed to the convenience store owners, since they couldn’t reach Violet’s cell phone. And, later, the more pressing phone call—the urgent, middle-of-the-night one—telling them Violet was in trouble, that she needed help. Sara had also suggested that they call Violet’s uncle, and that the three of them meet her, along with the local authorities she would be contacting, up at the remote cabin.
They didn’t know Sara, or what her relationship to Violet was, but in that moment, hearing that their daughter might be in danger, they hadn’t stopped to question her. It was enough to know that Violet might need them.
They were relieved to find their daughter safe and alive. And horrified that Sara had been right, that Violet had been in jeopardy, and that someone else may have died there that night.
They held Violet so tightly that she felt like she might shatter. It had never been so good to see them.
Chelsea and Claire were beside themselves with relief, both of them crying when they realized that Violet, Megan, and Jay were unharmed.
None of them knew for certain what had happened to Mike. He was still out there.
But by the time the officers had gone in search of him, he was already emerging from the frozen woods.
Chaos ensued.
Violet strained to see him, to get a glimpse of him, as she listened to the commotion that his sudden appearance created. She heard voices shouting, demanding that he show his hands and that he keep them raised.
Mike obeyed listlessly, and Violet noted that his eyes were now as vacant as his sister’s. His outstretched hands were empty.
She sensed nothing at all from him. No curious smells, no abnormal colors or lights, no anomalous sounds.
No imprints at all.
Violet eased herself away from her parents and edged closer to where Mike was already being handcuffed. She wanted to get near him. She needed to know what had happened out there. She searched him, studying him. She scoured him to the depths of her ability and came back with nothing.
“What do you think?” she heard the familiar voice asking from beside her.
Violet shook her head, confused. “I don’t think he did it.” There was a pause, and then she glanced at Sara, remembering something that needed to be said. “There’s a body out there, other than their dad’s. I think Serena Russo has been buried there for a long time,” Violet stated flatly, feeling hollow now too.
Sara blinked, and Violet could see the questions there, the ones that Violet knew she could answer now. When all this was over with, she would tell Sara everything. “Can you show me where?” Sara asked.
Violet led Sara back into the woods, back toward the echo that had drawn her in the first place.
They couldn’t get close; the area was already being cordoned off, and despite her pull with law enforcement, even Sara was asked to stay back. It didn’t matter though; they were close enough.
Mike’s dad was there, in the same spot he’d been in when Jay had led Violet and Megan away. He still bore the imprints of the lives he’d taken before his death.
And Violet sensed the new imprint too, vibrant and fresh. Surrounding his lifeless body, covering him in ghostly clusters and hovering above him with vaporous, spectral wings, were butterflies. Hundreds and hundreds of beautiful, unearthly butterflies.
Violet’s body hummed with each beat of their delicate, sheer wings.
The gun lay awkwardly beneath his arm.
Violet knew that Mike hadn’t shot his father. She would have seen this imprint on him . . . and it hadn’t been there. Instead, his father bore both the imprint and the echo of his own suicide.
Sara reached out to touch Violet’s arm, misunderstanding the pained expression on Violet’s face. “You don’t have to look at him,” she explained gently.
But Violet wasn’t looking at him. It was the other echo that was causing her to shudder with ache.
“She’s there.” Violet pointed to the spot nearby. “He killed her and buried her there.”
Sara nodded, and Violet realized that soon it would all be over. The pain, the discomfort, the unsettled feeling of a body craving peace.
Once Serena Russo was properly buried—at long last—Violet would be released.
“It was him, you know?” Sara explained as they turned to leave. “Ed Russo was responsible for killing Roger Hartman’s dog.”
Violet tried to respond, but already the pain was unbearable. Sara had no way of knowing.
“We finally reached Hartman, and he told us that Ed Russo had been harassing him ever since he moved back to the area, stopping by his work and his house, making threatening phone calls. Hartman let us listen to some of the messages.” Sara didn’t seem surprised when Violet reached for her, holding on to her arm for support, and Violet was in too much pain to worry about appearances. Sara continued, without missing a beat. “Drunken ramblings, mostly. But he accused Hartman of poisoning his wife’s mind and destroying his family. In the last message, he brags about killing the dog. Pretty ugly stuff.”
But Violet already knew. She had witnessed the echo—the ghostly rain—firsthand.
She frowned, still curious about one thing. “How did you know I needed help?” she questioned Sara. “What made you come all the way up here in the middle of the night?”
Sara glanced up then, but not at Violet.
She looked ahead of her, to where the trees became open field again. There was something strange in her eyes when she saw the person standing there, something Violet couldn’t interpret. A secret of her own, perhaps.
Violet followed Sara’s gaze and saw Rafe there, waiting for them in the snow with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. It was the first time Violet had realized he was there. His serious blue eyes watched them cautiously, warily.
Even in the dead of night he looked mysteriously out of place.
When Sara answered Violet, her voice was hushed, her words cryptic and heavy with meaning. “Someone told me you were in danger.”
Epilogue
Violet stood on the other side of the glass and studied the men before her.
Again, they couldn’t see her. And again, she was battered by several sensations at once. She stepped closer, until she could see her
breath against the barrier that separated her from them, and she pressed her palms against the cool surface, closing her eyes. Concentrating.
There was only one sensation she was searching for in the midst of all the others.
She listened carefully, the sound of her own breathing steadying her as she disentangled one imprint from the rest.
Beautiful. Poignant. Melodic.
The evocative strings of the harp.
It was him, the man who had stolen the little boy from his family in Utah and left him to die inside the shipping crate on the waterfront. Violet would recognize him anywhere.
She opened her eyes. “There,” she said, pointing to the man at the end of the row.
Sara nodded. “You’re right. That’s impressive, Violet.”
Violet smiled. “So I passed?”
“I told you, it’s not a test.”
She took a step away from the glass, distancing herself even as the men were being led from the other room. “Yeah, but it kinda was.”
Sara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Violet knew even if Sara refused to admit it.
Violet had expected to feel relief; she’d already known that unburdening herself, at least to Sara, would make her feel better. But what she hadn’t counted on was that she would feel so . . . alive.
She tingled with a new sense of purpose. And even though she hadn’t officially accepted Sara’s invitation to join their group, Violet knew that, in a way, she already had.
She still didn’t understand exactly what it was that Sara’s team did, or how they operated, but after witnessing Sara in action that night at the cabin, Violet knew that Sara definitely had influence with the authorities. She’d witnessed Sara giving orders to the local sheriff’s office and had watched her interacting with the FBI agents who had later arrived on the scene.
Even if she didn’t actually work for the FBI, Sara Priest had proven that she was a force to be reckoned with.
And, more importantly, Violet knew she could count on Sara, could trust her. That was a lot for Violet.
As far as Mike and Megan, they were already gone. They’d moved to Oregon to live with an aunt who’d offered to take them in.
Megan had admitted to everything. She’d admitted that she’d hated Violet at first, that she was jealous, and had wanted to frighten her. She confessed to leaving her dead cat at Violet’s house as a message. She confessed to the note and the phone calls as well.
Violet had reached out and forgiven Megan, knowing that the younger girl had already suffered enough, from years of living with an alcoholic father and then discovering that he’d murdered her mother.
Megan would need a lot of therapy to undo the damage her father had done, and Sara assured Violet that they would do everything they could to get her the help she needed.
Mike, on the other hand, admitted to nothing.
And although no one could dispute his story, that his father had wrestled the gun from his hands to take his own life, Violet suspected something else, something more disturbing. She couldn’t help remembering the way Mike’s father had begged Mike to end his life, to let him die, and she wondered if Mike hadn’t just agreed, offering his father an alternative to prison.
And Violet wasn’t sure she blamed him if he had. She wasn’t sure that his father didn’t, in some way, deserve what he’d gotten, and that Mike and Megan didn’t deserve the peace of knowing that they would never have to face their father again.
She honestly didn’t know. . . .
As Violet gathered her things, Sara asked her to call later.
Violet nodded, for the first time agreeing, and she wondered again how she would fit into their group.
In the hallway, Rafe stood waiting for them. Waiting for Violet.
He held out his hand to her, and in it Violet saw the folded pink note that she’d given to Sara when she’d asked for her help. She looked at it curiously.
“Here.” He spoke in the quiet voice she’d grown accustomed to. It seemed to suit his brooding nature. “I don’t need this anymore.”
Violet tentatively reached out her hand to take it from him, her mind speculating as to why he’d had it in the first place. She’d spent plenty of time wondering about his role in the group, so how did the note fit in?
Her fingertips brushed against his and, not for the first time, she felt that tremor of something pass through her, something electric.
He pulled his hand away quickly but glanced up at her, meeting her gaze.
Violet smiled at him unsurely. “Hey, I want to thank you. You know, for bringing help that night. I owe you one.” She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t wait for a response. But as she started to walk away, leaving him standing there in the hallway, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile knowingly.
Violet didn’t need an explanation as to how he’d known she was in trouble, just as she didn’t want to go around explaining to others what she could do.
It was enough to know that they were a part of something else now.
Together.
“That was fast,” Jay said as Violet got into the car.
“I told you I wouldn’t be long.”
“Good, ’cause I think we’re gonna be late,” he answered, glancing at the clock on his dash.
Violet sighed. “Is this about the party?”
“I already told you: There is no party.” And then he grinned at her. “Besides, if you don’t act surprised, Chelsea’s going to kill me.”
“Ugh! I hate parties.”
Jay reached over and slipped his hand around the back of Violet’s neck, pulling her toward him. She could smell the mint he’d been chewing on as she leaned into him.
“Come on. None of them got to celebrate your birthday with you.” He kissed her once, softly, sweetly, on her cheek. “Let them have their little party; it won’t last long.” He kissed her other cheek and then her chin, and Violet felt her resolve slipping.
“We’ll be out of there in no time.” His lips brushed her forehead; his eyes smoldered as he gazed down at her. “And then afterward”—he found her lips, lightly teasing her—“we can have our own party.”
Violet sighed in defeat, losing herself to his very persuasive argument.
“I think we’re gonna be late,” she whispered, surrendering at last.
Acknowledgments
First, I have to thank my ever-patient agent, Laura Rennert, for always being in my corner, cheering me on every step of the way . . . thank you!
To my editors at HarperCollins, Farrin Jacobs and Kari Sutherland, thank you for your support, guidance, and unfailing good humor . . . you’ve made Desires of the Dead something we can all be proud of!
Thank you also to my fabulous marketing, publicity, and design team at HarperCollins, which includes my super-publicist Melissa Bruno—who works tirelessly to put my books in the hands of, well, pretty much everyone—and Sasha Illingworth—the incredibly talented designer who has created not one but two amazing covers for my books. I cannot thank you all enough!!!
To everyone at the Debs and the Tenners, for always having my back! To Jacqueline and Tamara, I couldn’t have survived the launch of The Body Finder without the two of you! To Shelli Wells, for being as good a friend in real life as you are online. A special thanks to all The Body Finder Street Teamers who went out of their way to spread the word. And to Reggie, try to keep this one away from the bathtub!
I also want to thank my dad, Gerry, from whom I learned the gift of gab (among other things), an important trait for any writer . . . thank you. And my brother, Scot, who taught me that an annoying little brother can grow up to be a best friend.
And again, to my mom, Josh, Abby, Connor, and Amanda . . . because you’re always there, loving me as much as I love you!
About the Author
Kimberly Derting lives in the Pacific Northwest, where the gloomy weather is ideal for writing anything dark or creepy, leading to her debut novel, THE BODY FINDER, and its
follow-up, DESIRES OF THE DEAD. She lives with her husband and their three beautiful (and often mouthy) children, who serve as an endless source of inspiration. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyderting.com.
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Also by Kimberly Derting
THE BODY FINDER
Copyright
Desires of the Dead
Copyright © 2011 by Kimberly Derting
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Derting, Kimberly.
Desires of the dead / Kimberly Derting. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Violet Ambrose’s ability to find murder victims and their killers draws the attention of the FBI just as her relationship with Jay, her best-friend-turned-boyfriend, heats up.
ISBN 978-0-06-177984-8
[1. Psychic ability—Fiction. 2. Murder—Fiction. 3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction. 8. Washington (State)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D4468Des 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010017838
Desires of the Dead Page 25
