Violet nodded as she slipped both the note and the bottle into her pocket.
Sleep would be good, she decided. Sleep might be just what she needed.
Violet stood outside, watching as the lights went out, row by row, inside the auto parts store where Jay worked. She probably should’ve felt guilty about showing up unannounced, but truthfully, she didn’t. The only thing she felt was that familiar thrum of anticipation in the pit of her stomach whenever she was about to see Jay. When the door finally opened and she heard the key slide into the lock, she smiled, stepping out of the shadows.
“Jesus, Vi, you scared the crap outta me!” Jay jolted, but even in the washed-out light coming from the store’s sign, Violet could see the easy smile that found his lips as he stuffed the bulky store keys in his pocket. “Although I have to admit I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
She made a face at him. “Whatever! You don’t know anything.” She lifted both hands in front of her, as if he hadn’t already seen the two cups she was holding, her version of a romantic gesture. They were Jay’s favorite, cherry Slurpees from the 7-Eleven. Violet always teased him about having such simple taste, but secretly, she loved them too. Drinking the red, slushy drinks reminded her of the long summer days they’d spent loitering on the hot blacktop parking lot in front of the run-down convenience store, waiting for something interesting to happen. But it was Buckley, after all, and the best thing that ever happened was a street race between two hotheaded teens trying to show off for a girl. Or maybe a shoplifting incident during which the police would be called. Every so often it was her uncle who would show up, and she and Jay would talk him into giving them a ride in his police cruiser to town where they would hang out in the park instead.
Jay grinned, reaching for one of the cups. Violet sat down on the curb, just like they used to do as kids, and lifted her straw to her lips.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, serious now, following her lead and dropping onto the curb beside her.
Violet leaned against him, just enough so their shoulders were touching, and she felt a different kind of spark, the kind forged from years of connection. This was where she belonged. This was where she should always be. With Jay.
“So how was your appointment? With the shrink?” He was frowning as he stared down at her, his lips already turning red from his drink. His face was creased with worry.
“It was good,” she said, taking a long pull from her own straw and swirling the sweet, syrupy ice around her tongue. “It—it helped to talk to him.” She didn’t tell Jay about the pills Dr. Lee had given her, the ones in her pocket, pressed against her thigh at this very moment. Pills felt like failure to her. Like admitting she couldn’t handle this on her own. That willpower wasn’t enough . . . even though, clearly, it wasn’t. “But, you know, I still don’t feel great. I was hoping that seeing you might make things . . .” A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she shrugged. “. . . better,” she finished.
She knew he’d understand what she was telling him: that the echo of the dead girl was weighing on her still.
After a hesitant pause, Jay set the wax-coated cup on the sidewalk next to him. He leaned down and pressed the barest whisper of a kiss against the top of Violet’s dark curls. Despite the icy sensation of his lips, heat unfurled in Violet’s belly, licking through her. “I hate this, you know.” Absently, he reached for her hand, lifting it and flipping it over as he studied her palm. His thumb ran along the grooves there, and then his eyes moved up to meet hers. “I hate that you have to do all this without me. Maybe it would be better if you spent less time there . . . with them.”
Violet wished he’d just say it, what he really meant. “He’s not that bad, Jay. He’s just trying to help.” She knew that neither of them was talking about Dr. Lee now. This was about Rafe.
She looked at him, taking in a face that was almost more familiar to her than her own. His golden features, his warm eyes, his slightly too-long hair with the faintest curls dropping past the tops of his ears and brushing his neck. He looked so hurt, so vulnerable, and she blamed herself.
He touched her cheek, his hand as cool as his lips had been. “I just worry that he’s careless. I don’t know if I trust him, Vi.”
“He saved me once. What more do you want?”
“I want to know that he’d protect you the way I would if something happens. That he has your best interests in mind.” And then he sighed, a ragged, defeated sound. He ran his hand through his already rumpled hair. “That’s a lie. I want my girlfriend to stop spending so much time with another guy. I wanna know that you two don’t share some sort of bond because of what you can do. But what I really want is to know that he doesn’t have feelings for you.”
Violet was speechless. She had no idea how—or what—to say to any of that. She could defend her relationship with Rafe by saying that they only worked together, but it wouldn’t matter. Partly because she’d be lying. Of course they shared a bond, one Jay would never truly understand. And she certainly wasn’t going to quit the team because of that.
But it was that last part, the thing about Rafe having feelings for her, that really made her pause. Rafe didn’t like her, not in the way Jay meant.
Fortunately for Violet, she didn’t have to speak because Jay wasn’t finished yet. “But, honestly, you know what bothers me more than anything?” She shook her head, and he continued, his voice so low it sounded like a whisper rumbling up from his heart. “It’s that I can’t do anything for you when you’re in this kind of pain, Vi.”
Eyes wide now, Violet released the shaky breath she’d been holding.
Jay leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers while he scooped up both of her hands and squeezed them tight. As their breath mingled Violet wondered when she’d set her own cup down. They remained there like that—like marble sculptures—frozen nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth.
Then she felt his lips move against hers, and she closed her eyes when he whispered, “I wish I could make things better. I wish I could stop you from hurting.”
Speechless, Violet tipped her head back, just enough so that their lips were no longer just brushing, so she could make him kiss her. She needed to taste him, to draw strength from him as she pressed herself nearer to him, straining to be closer still. She freed one hand from his and cupped the back of his neck, her fingers digging into his hair, telling him—without words—not to pull away.
He kissed her back, in response to her restless request, giving her only what she needed. He stayed cool and restrained, never pushing her for anything more than what she asked for.
Violet’s toes curled inside her shoes and she wished that they were somewhere, anywhere, besides sitting on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the auto parts store. Finally, when she peeled her cherry-flavored lips from his, they still burned from his touch. “You do make things better,” she exhaled, her voice sounding faraway even to herself. “You make me feel . . . normal.”
Jay laughed, hauling Violet against his chest. She felt safe with his hands spanning her back. “And that’s good?” he laughed. “Most people want to be anything but normal.”
Listening to the rhythm of his heart, she smiled, feeling the deep fog lift from around her, over her, as she concentrated—focused—just like Dr. Lee had taught her. “Trust me, normal’s good. Very, very good.”
She felt suddenly shy about what she was about to ask but she let the words tumble from her lips anyway. “Can we go back to your house for a while?”
Jay squeezed tighter, his arms still wrapped around her with the unspoken promise of never letting her go. “For as long as you want, Violet.”
Exclusivity
IT HAD BEEN HARD TO WAIT ALL DAY. HE’D BEEN impatient, anxious. Excited.
He loved that butterfly feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, the fluttering sensation that came with the birth of each new relationship. He felt giddy just thinking about her, dizzy with the anticipation of every new first they wo
uld soon share as a couple.
The first time their eyes would meet, and hold—ripe with understanding. The moment their skin would graze—accidentally at first, and then once more, with purpose. Their first kiss—tentative and slow, and then again more passionately.
All of those firsts they had to look forward to . . .
He watched as she opened the back door to the café, the one leading to the alley where her car was parked, just as she did at the end of each shift. Though it was barely dark yet, her gaze flitted in every direction, watchful. Wary.
She wasn’t stupid; he would never have chosen a stupid girlfriend. As she released the café door behind her, he saw that she gripped her keys in her fist, a defensive maneuver that he easily recognized.
Definitely not a dumb girl, he thought, smiling to himself.
She darted quickly, her footsteps purposeful, determined. It was less than fifteen paces to her car—he knew because he’d already counted them—and he watched as she reached it easily while he stayed low, tucked away in the shadows and out of sight.
He waited until she was safely inside, keeping his breathing low and in check, until he heard the click of her locks. Until he knew she felt safe.
Now all he had to do was wait for his part.
Listening, he heard her engine struggling to catch. Trying and trying again, she turned her ignition. Without even peeking, he could picture her pleading with her car to start.
But it wouldn’t start. Not tonight.
After a few minutes, he stepped out from the shadows, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He knew how he looked from her vantage point: He was just an ordinary guy—a student, probably—parked in the same lot she was.
He had to be careful, to time his actions perfectly:
First, he ignored her, pretended he didn’t realize her predicament as he unlocked his own car.
Second, he started his engine. No problem there. His ignition switch was fine.
And then, just as he was about to go, to leave the girl stranded, he had a change of heart. Lucky for her.
When he reached the last step, the crucial one that would bring his plan home, he turned his car off and got back out. Lifting a hand, he waved uncertainly as he made his way timidly across the lot. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like you might need a hand.” He stayed back, though. Far enough so she’d feel comfortable, so she felt like she was the one in control.
At first she hesitated. But then, even though she didn’t actually voice it, the sudden shift in her expression said it all . . . the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, a hesitant smile. She recognized him.
It was a positive first step in their budding relationship.
She rolled down her window, watching him with her big, trusting brown eyes. Another first. “It won’t start,” she explained. She leaned forward now, feeling more comfortable.
He thought about it for several seconds, not wanting to appear too eager, too desperate, and then finally, he said, “I’d offer to take a look, but . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know a thing about cars. The best I can do is call you a tow truck.” He pulled out his cell phone.
She wrinkled her nose. “I have my phone. You don’t have to . . .”
He glanced around at the alley, wearing a practiced expression of concern. “At least let me wait with you.”
She looked too, her brow creasing as her hand shot up to her neck, nervously fingering the necklace she wore . . . a vintage locket with a small pearl inset at its center. He knew the look on her face: She was worried about what—or who—might be out there. In the shadows. “Are you sure?” she asked at last. “I don’t want to put you out.”
He just smiled at her, telling her in their new implicit way that it was fine. “How about you buy me a coffee next time I come in?”
Her lids lowered and he could practically hear her thoughts: He remembers me too. “Yes . . . next time. Of course.”
Satisfaction coursed through him: Next time would have been their second date.
Except that the moment she unlocked the passenger side door to let him in, the date had become unnecessary. She’d just agreed to take their relationship to a whole new level. She’d just agreed to become his.
He reached across then, surprising her as he threw himself on top of her. He cupped his hand over her face as he held her down, covering her mouth and nose with the plain white cloth he’d been clutching in his fist.
She struggled—they always struggled—but in that moment, their eyes met, and held.
He wondered whose heart beat faster, harder, as he leaned closer. “Shhh,” he crooned, pressing the cloth firmer against her face. Her eyes widened in response, and he knew that she’d understood his unspoken reassurance, he knew that already they were developing a wordless rapport.
He held her like that, embracing her until she stopped struggling, until she relaxed, succumbing to his adoration, his devotion. Until she accepted that she belonged to him.
Then he gently unbuckled her and carried her to his car. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear for her, just as he knew she’d have done. And when he leaned in close, his lips hovering right above her cheek, his heart fluttered and his stomach tightened. It was another first: the kiss.
He pressed his lips to her cheek, savoring the sensation of her soft skin beneath his mouth. It was warm, soft, supple.
He could hardly wait until she kissed him back.
Chapter 4
SOMETIMES VIOLET FELT LIKE A FRAUD, LIVING A double life the way she did. One part of her life was so normal, her days filled with school and homework, family and friends. The other half was riddled with secrecy and death. This had definitely been one of those days, as she’d been forced to sit through World History listening to Ms. Ritke’s lecture about Charlotte of Belgium’s tragic life, wondering how much hair spray it took to keep the teacher’s tall bouffant from losing its shape. Ms. Ritke was a student favorite and taught history as if she were giving a recap of her favorite soap opera, not focusing on dates and locations, but including all of the scandalous details like affairs, conspiracies, and incest.
But even Ms. Ritke hadn’t been enough to hold Violet’s interest after she’d gotten the text from Sara:
Need you at the Center. Can you come after school?
She didn’t tell Sara that she’d come whenever she asked. How could she not? If it hadn’t been for Sara and Rafe, Violet probably would’ve been killed that night at the cabin, when Mike and Megan’s dad had discovered she’d known the truth about how his wife had died. She owed her life to them.
But it was more than just the fact that Sara and Rafe had saved her life that made Violet want to be there, she admitted. There was something about that place—and the team—that made her feel normal. Not like such a freak.
Her friends Mike and Megan had moved away after that night at the cabin when their father had confessed to killing their mother and then turned the gun on himself.
But they weren’t the only ones whose lives had been changed by the events of that night. Violet’s life had changed too.
She had found a home that night. A safe place where she could put her gift to good use. With Sara’s team of misfits.
Violet parked her Honda next to Krystal’s oversized, gas- guzzling Chevy. It didn’t matter that Roxy was about thirty years out of style, or that she took up nearly two parking spaces on her own; the car totally suited Krystal’s eclectic style.
She navigated the nondescript hallway that led to the state-of-the-art facility the team referred to as “the Center.” If you didn’t know better, the building was just another warehouse in the middle of the industrial section of Seattle. But Violet knew better. Holding up her keycard, she waited until the light on the panel outside the inner entrance turned from red to green, signaling that her access had been granted, and she slipped quietly inside.
Everyone was already there, gathered in the oversized space where a cluster of chairs and
couches had been pulled together for their meeting. Violet took the opportunity to look around at their group. They were an odd collection, with very few outward similarities.
Gemma was a throwback to old Hollywood glam, and Violet envied the other girl’s heart-shaped face, golden blonde hair, and bowed lips that were perpetually painted a vibrant poppy red. She wondered how it was possible that Gemma was only sixteen. But the effect of her doelike brown eyes was lost once you recognized the hardened air she wore like armor. She seemed jaded. Cynical. Caustic.
Or maybe it was only Violet who got that vibe from her.
Her gaze moved to Sam Abolins, the youngest member of the team. He claimed to be almost sixteen, but Violet had a hard time believing he was a day over fourteen. Granted, he was tall, but he was too gangly by half . . . still waiting for puberty to fill out his lanky body. In the two months she’d been with her new team, Violet had only met Sam a handful of times, most of those during the first investigation she’d been involved in, an arson case. It had been awkward for Violet since she was brand-new, and her ability hadn’t been useful. But unlike Gemma, Sam had made it easy for her, making an effort at small talk and trying to make Violet feel welcome. Violet had watched him then, as he’d touched the charred remains from the fire when they were brought into the Center, his face twisted in concentration.
Now Violet saw Krystal standing in the space they called the break room. She was just closing the door of the industrial-sized refrigerator when she noticed Violet at the entrance and her mouth split into a wide grin. “What took you so long? We were waiting for you,” she whisper-yelled as she popped open a bottle of sparkling water. Violet wondered if she actually thought no one else could hear her, even when everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at her.
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