Violet sent a quick text to Jay, knowing he’d spread the word for her:
Running late. Be there soon.
Then, setting the phone aside, she hesitantly reached for the sweatshirt, almost as if it might scald her, and she flipped over the fleece to examine it. There was nothing different about it than there had ever been before; it was the same White River High School hoodie it had always been . . . the one she’d worn so often it had lost its shape, the edges of the sleeves fraying and tattered.
Only now she didn’t want to wear it. Now it was just another reminder of the night she’d first encountered James Nua in the police station.
Violet’s face crumpled as she glanced once more at the sweatshirt she held. And then she remembered something. Something she’d very nearly forgotten about . . .
Slipping her hand inside the single front pocket, her fingers searched until they grasped the tiny slip of paper that was wadded into an almost unnoticeable ball. “There you are,” she whispered, the sliver of a smile finding her lips as she smoothed it out. Her eyes were slower to adjust than they should have been. She guessed it was a side effect of the drug she’d taken the night before to help her sleep. Everything about her felt like that: slow to adjust.
When she finally recognized what it was she was staring at, she felt a burst of triumph, even though she had no idea if it even meant anything.
She recalled the way Rafe had been flipping through the pages of the book, sure he’d discovered something. And how she’d watched as the slip of paper tumbled from between the pages to the floor when the cop had interrupted them.
It was a receipt. A restaurant receipt from someplace called The Mecca.
Violet studied it, tracing it with her fingers, considering it. And then she put it away again, realizing she had somewhere she needed to go after school today.
“So, are you planning to tell me what Madame Gemma saw when she was reading your palm yesterday?” Violet stared up at Jay with wide, overly innocent eyes as they maneuvered through the hallways toward the cafeteria. She batted her eyelashes and dropped her voice. Jay didn’t mention how bloodshot her eyes were, or that there were deep bags beneath them, even though she was sure he’d noticed. “C’mon, I won’t tell anyone your secrets . . . even if they’re really, really bad,” she promised, raising an eyebrow.
“Mocking me will get you nowhere.” But he leaned down, his breath tickling the side of her neck, and a rush of warmth flooded Violet’s stomach. “There are other ways to break me, though.”
Violet reached for his hand, drawing him out of the flow of traffic, away from the pushing and shoving of students, until they were tucked into a private pocket of space, just the two of them. “What do I have to do to make you talk?” She pressed against him, standing on her toes so her lips could reach his.
She didn’t have to reach far; he was already meeting her halfway, his arm snaking around her waist. They didn’t speak for several long seconds as Violet savored the feel of his lips against hers, soft and familiar and achingly tender. She shivered inwardly, both loving and hating the way her body reacted—almost instantaneously—to his. She had very little control over herself when he touched her. She felt like a puppet, at his command.
But they couldn’t stand there for long, pretending that no one could see them, when everyone could. She kissed him one last time . . . lightly, softly, sweetly. “So, now are you gonna tell me?” she teased, slipping her hand beneath his T-shirt so she could feel the warmth of his bare stomach.
One side of his lip twitched upward. “There’s really nothing to tell, Vi. I don’t have any deep dark secrets or anything. What you see is what you get.”
“How can you be so sure? What did she say exactly?” Violet’s fingers danced along his waistline, tracing a path to his back.
Jay grinned down at her, reaching for her hand and leading her toward the lunchroom. “Nothing, really. She just kept saying ‘interesting,’ over and over again. If you ask me, she just noticed what everyone else already knows, that I’m incredibly interesting.”
Violet stopped short as they reached their lunch table. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.
Jay flashed Violet a puzzled look. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”
“We’re not.” Violet glared at Chelsea, Jules, and Claire, wondering what it was they were up to.
“Hey, guys,” Chelsea chirped, entirely too cheerfully. “You remember Jacqueline, right?”
Violet clenched her jaw as she dropped her lunch on the table across from where Jacqueline stood beside Chelsea. Claire sat on the other side of her, daintily unfolding the plastic wrap around her sandwich, oblivious to the tension in the air. Violet searched Jacqueline’s face for any visible marks where the ball had hit her the other day in PE.
Jacqueline ignored the halfhearted, quasi introduction and took a deep breath as if she were getting ready to start one of her cheer routines. Even her regular voice was . . . overly spirited. “I just wanted to come over and invite you guys to Hannah Sanders’s house tonight. Her parents are out of town and she’s throwing a rager. Everyone’ll be there. And I do mean everyone.” She directed her gaze to Jay as she said the last word, her eyes sparkling playfully.
Violet was biting down so hard now that she was worried she might actually shatter her own molars. She squeezed as close to Jay as she could manage on the cafeteria bench. She knew it was a possessive move, but at the moment that was the least of her concerns.
“Sorry, Jac, I have to work,” Jay said, and Violet’s stomach tightened, wondering when he and “Jac” had ever even talked before, when they’d gotten chummy enough to use nicknames.
Jacqueline’s shoulders sagged. “Aw, that stinks, Jay! I was counting on you to be there.”
“I can make it,” Claire offered, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, as if Jacqueline were worried about a head count.
“Yep, me too,” Jules added, leaning forward on her elbows. She lifted an eyebrow, a wicked smile dancing across her full lips. She knew this had nothing at all to do with how many people showed up. “Chels?”
Chelsea grinned with satisfaction. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, tapping her lip thoughtfully. “In fact, I think you should come too, Vi. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”
Violet scowled at Chelsea. “Sorry. I might’ve gotten my phone back, but I sort of doubt my parents will be letting me go to parties any time soon.” She had no intention of admitting that the last place she wanted to be was at Hannah Sanders’s house with a bunch of Jacqueline’s friends.
“Your loss.” Jacqueline shrugged, but she didn’t sound all that disappointed to hear Violet wouldn’t be attending. Again, she turned to Jay. “If you change your mind . . .”
Jay laughed off the suggestion as he cupped his hand around Violet’s knee, squeezing it reassuringly. Violet thought of the way she’d seen Gemma cupping his hand the day before at the Center, and she couldn’t help it; she felt something well deep inside her, something close to frustration and worry. She felt like she’d missed something important.
She knew Jay wasn’t interested in Jacqueline—or at least she hoped he wasn’t.
“What did you do, anyway?” Chelsea asked after Jacqueline had sauntered away.
Violet glanced up, confusion evident in her green eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“To get in so much trouble, what did you do?”
“It was nothing, really,” Jay explained, dropping his arm around Violet’s shoulder and pulling her closer. “Violet did a little breaking and entering the other night and got busted by the cops.”
Chelsea frowned at him. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Violet doesn’t even jaywalk—no offense, Jay,” she said. “No way she was trespassing in someone else’s house.”
Jay just turned his wry gaze toward Violet for confirmation. “It’s true, isn’t it, Vi?”
She shook her head, trying to d
ecide whether to laugh or to wring his neck for putting her in this position. Finally she sighed, her posture wilting. “It’s true,” she admitted. “But it’s not like I was stealing anything. I was just looking around. Besides”—she gritted her teeth and glared at Jay—“I’m not sure we should be talking about this.”
Jules interrupted her. “Oh, I’m totally sure you should be talking about this. This is the juiciest thing I’ve heard all week, maybe all year.” She glanced meaningfully at Violet, her light brows arched. “Probably the juiciest thing I’ve ever heard about you.”
If she only knew, Violet thought. And suddenly she wondered if she’d been wrong to worry about Jacqueline. Maybe Jacqueline was exactly the kind of girl Jay needed.
The kind of girl who went to parties.
The kind of girl who didn’t break into houses, or chase after dead bodies and serial killers.
An ordinary girl. A normal girl.
Violet hated parallel parking, so she decided that rather than embarrassing herself by even trying, she would drive around the crowded block several times, searching for alternatives. She finally found a spot in a small pay lot with spaces that were entirely too small, even for her Honda. It took some maneuvering but she managed to squeeze herself between a Toyota hybrid and a late-model Mercedes. From there, it was a walk to the main street where the café was, but at least no one had been watching as she’d backed in and out, and in and out, until she was straight . . . ish.
Making her way through the dingy alleyway lined with Dumpsters and discarded boxes, Violet had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the kind of place you would want to be after dark. But it was still daylight, so it wasn’t so bad.
Still, she walked quickly, tucking her hands into her pockets and keeping her head low. She glanced around, more wary of her surroundings than usual since she still felt groggy, a lingering effect from the pills that refused to dissipate entirely.
Since she didn’t trust her dulled senses, she kept her eyes peeled, searching for signs that she wasn’t alone. She peered into the shadows around each Dumpster and garbage can she passed, making sure no one was hidden there waiting to pounce on a girl who was all by herself in a creepy alley. She knew her imagination was working overtime, but even so, she breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the sidewalk and made a quick right-hand turn, joining the heavy foot traffic in the U District as she scanned the storefronts for The Mecca.
The café was really just a small soup-and-sandwich shop that, like so many others in the city, also served espresso and pastries. Outside, there was a cheerful red awning with The Mecca painted in swirling gold letters. It was inviting, Violet thought as she ducked through the entrance and the bells over the door jangled.
Inside, tables painted a glossy black were packed together, leaving little room to navigate between them. One entire wall was littered with a hodgepodge of framed paintings, each with a dangling, handwritten price tag, and Violet guessed they were probably on consignment from local artists. The paintings themselves ranged from generic cityscapes of the skyline and the Space Needle to the more exotic—and infinitely more colorful—paintings of fairies or pixies or other scantily clad, winged women. There was a large handwritten chalkboard above the counter that served as the menu, and a selection of coffee syrups littered the countertops around the industrial-sized stainless steel espresso machine.
Violet scanned the small late-afternoon crowd, not sure exactly what she’d expected to find, but hoping she’d be able to help.
She wondered if this was a place Antonia Cornett might have frequented, a usual hangout for her like the Java Hut was for Violet and her friends. Or if it was just a fluke that Violet happened across this particular receipt and it meant nothing at all, just a random slip of paper that the girl had been using as a bookmark. Meaningless.
Violet stood in front of the counter, examining the large corkboard covered in Polaroid snapshots. There were photographs of the café’s employees, each with a drink recommendation listed below it. It was also handwritten with bold, colorful markers. There were lots of hand-drawn hearts and stars and flowers, and a drawing of a big coffee mug with swirls of steam rising from it.
Violet glanced at the red-haired girl behind the counter, and despite her puffy red eyes, she recognized her Polaroid from the board: She was the brown-sugar caramel macchiato.
“I’ll have that,” Violet said, pointing at the girl’s drink recommendation. “Decaf, please,” she added quickly.
The girl just nodded as she turned to the espresso machine. While she worked, Violet scanned the rest of the photos, thinking that maybe Antonia Cornett would be on there, that maybe she’d worked here before she vanished.
But by the time the girl was foaming the milk for the macchiato, Violet had given up. Antonia wasn’t there.
She suddenly felt foolish for coming all this way over a simple receipt. How many insignificant receipts did she herself have lying around? More than she cared to admit.
She paid for her drink, took a sip of the sickly sweet concoction, and then dropped it in the trash can on her way out the door.
As she stood on the sidewalk once more, she struggled with what she should do next.
This area, the University District, was always bustling with activity, something Violet appreciated about the city. She could lose herself in a place like this, vanish in the rush of people and never even be noticed.
She stepped out of the way of foot traffic, students rushing past her with backpacks dangling from their shoulders and messenger bags slung across their chests. Even on a Friday afternoon, everyone had someplace to be. Everyone but Violet. She’d come all the way to Seattle hoping to find something useful, but had come up empty.
There was a bright red newspaper stand on the corner, and Violet dug in her purse for some quarters. She had no real plan, but maybe if she could find a place to sit and read for a while something would come to her, an idea. Dropping her coins into the slot, she pulled down the glass door and then paused.
Something felt off, and even though her first reaction was to dismiss it as just another strange side effect of the pills, she couldn’t just ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Even the ones inside her nose felt suddenly itchy, tingly.
She glanced around, her hand still poised over the newspaper inside the metal box.
She couldn’t describe the feeling exactly, but suddenly her chest felt tight, crushed. It was as if someone was watching her.
But everyone around her was moving, striding with purpose.
“Violet?”
She jumped at the sound of her name, catching her arm when she let go of the newspaper box’s door. She turned toward the boy’s voice and practically sighed with relief when she saw Sam standing there, looking at her curiously. Skinny, scrawny Sam, just another misfit in a sea of college students . . . in more ways than one. They were like peas in a pod.
“What—?” She grabbed her newspaper and let the door swing shut again, banging rustily. And then she turned to look behind her one last time, but there was nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at him, at the button-down shirt that fit loosely from his gawky frame, and the messenger bag he gripped in front of his chest.
He smiled, making him look younger and even less like he belonged in the U District. “I could ask you the same thing. You don’t live around here, do you?”
She concentrated on folding her newspaper and tucked it beneath her arm, ignoring his original question, not really wanting to explain why she was here. “No. Buckley, actually,” she said. “What about you? Do you live nearby?”
He made a face, one that basically said: You’re kidding, right? “You don’t know?”
Violet shook her head, wondering what she’d missed. “Know what? Did something else happen?”
Sam laughed at that. “Wow, they really keep you in the dark, don’t they? Don’t worry, as soon as they know you’re gonna s
tick, they’ll let you in on all the cool secrets. But, to be completely honest, this hardly qualifies as cool.” He raised an eyebrow and glanced purposely at his fingernails. She knew he was trying to look cocky, but it was a totally dorky move. “I live in the dorms. I’m just your average boy genius, that’s all.”
“Wait, you mean you . . . ?” Violet asked, not trying to hide her disbelief. “You go to school here?”
“That’s pretty much what I’m sayin’.” Sam nodded, a pleased expression on his face.
Violet thought about that, about not even being sixteen yet and being a student at the university. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s hard to see my enormous brains past . . . all of this.” He lifted one of his puny arms and flexed it, wiggling his eyebrows at her. Violet tried to hold back a giggle and then gave in, laughing at him.
Sam grinned back at her, and Violet was sort of amazed by his confidence. She wondered if she’d be so sure of herself if she were the one thrust into such an intimidating environment at such an early age.
“Hey, since you’re here, and since I’m done with my classes for the day, you wanna grab a cuppa coffee or something?” he asked.
Violet glanced back at the sign for The Mecca, and thought about the red-haired girl and her syrupy drink creation. “Sure,” she agreed, realizing it solved her dilemma and gave her something to do, at least. “But can we go somewhere with just plain old coffee?”
Violet used the flimsy red plastic stir stick to swirl more of the heavy white creamer into her cup, and then added three more sugar packets. The coffee at The Mecca might’ve been too sweet, but at Max’s Diner they didn’t mess around. Here, they served it hot and black.
“So how do you like it so far?” Sam asked, blowing on his cup before bringing it all the way to his lips. He looked like a little kid playing tea party . . . far too young to be taking his coffee black.
“I assume you don’t mean the coffee.” Violet grinned at him. She thought about it for a minute before answering. “The team? I like it okay. I guess what I really like is not always having to hide what I can do, not always lying to everyone, you know? Plus, if it hadn’t been for Sara and Rafe . . .” She hesitated. She didn’t think it was a secret, what had happened to her. Especially not one of the cool ones. “I wish I could be useful like that,” she said, instead of explaining her situation.
The Last Echo: A Body Finder Novel Page 12
