“Are you kidding? You have the coolest . . .” He lowered his voice to a whisper until it felt like they were playing Secret Agents. “You have the coolest gift of all of us,” he repeated. “I’d trade you if I could.”
Violet laughed. It was hard to take him seriously when he was staring at her with his overeager eyes, pale freckles splattered across his nose, kid genius or not. “You’re crazy. Psychometry is way cooler.”
Sam scoffed. “Sure it is, if you’re Rafe and have all the other stuff that goes with it. Me, I just have the garden-variety version. You know, feel an object and get a vibe. Or not. Mostly not.”
“Other stuff?” Violet asked, leaning closer. “What other stuff are you talking about?”
Sam’s brows rose, practically disappearing into his hairline. “Um, only the precog stuff!” When Violet didn’t respond, he added, “Precognition . . .” He dragged the word out like he was the one speaking to a child now. And then he continued in an awed tone, “I might be able to tell something about an object’s past, but Rafe can tell the person’s future. In fact, I take it back: He has the coolest gift of everyone.”
Violet was speechless. She’d known, of course, that Rafe had predicted she was in trouble, but she’d never really thought about how he’d done it. She’d thought he was like Sam, she supposed, more of your average garden-variety psychic; she didn’t realize that knowing things before they happened was . . . well, so unusual. “I—I had no idea.”
Sam’s mouth clamped shut, and he suddenly looked as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His shoulders fell. “Damn,” he finally said. “I guess that was one of those cool secrets I was talking about.”
“It’s okay,” Violet assured him, lifting her cup to her lips. “I won’t say anything. Your secret’s safe with me. Well, I guess Rafe’s secret’s safe with me, but you get the point.”
“Good.” Sam sighed. “Because he already doesn’t like me. I’d hate to make things worse.”
“Who doesn’t like you? Rafe? Why wouldn’t he like you?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said, as genuinely surprised as Violet was. Honestly, he was a pretty likeable guy. “I don’t think he likes anyone, really.” And then Sam’s gaze lifted to hers, a faint smile lighting his boyish expression. “Except you, of course.”
Violet nearly choked on her coffee. “No,” she gasped, trying to talk as she struggled around her coughing fit. “You’re wrong. He doesn’t really like me, either. I think he just puts up with me, maybe because he saved my life and I’m indebted to him or something. Maybe he wants to make sure I pay him back.” She smiled wanly at the boy across from her, trying to convince him.
But he shook his head vehemently. “Then you’re blind. Or maybe it’s just ’cause you didn’t know him before you came on the team. He’s better now than he was then. Like, he’s a kinder, gentler Rafe . . . even though he’s still pretty foul most of the time.
“But before you were here, no one could even talk to him. He glared all the time. And God forbid someone tried to make nice and start a conversation.” Violet got the feeling Sam was talking about himself now as she listened, dazed. “He’d just bite their head off and storm away. He didn’t want anyone to like him. Sara was the only one he was actually nice to.”
Violet’s mind was churning. She thought about the things Krystal had told her, about no one liking Rafe, but it was hard to imagine he’d ever been so . . . so difficult. That wasn’t the Rafe she knew. Sure, he was walled off. And sarcastic, and even quick-tempered. But he was also sensitive and considerate. She knew because she’d seen that side of him.
She opened her mouth to say something, but words failed her, and she closed it again. She had no idea what she could possibly say to Sam. She was embarrassed, and she hoped he was wrong. She didn’t want to be the reason Rafe was different. She didn’t want to be the cause of a kinder, gentler Rafe.
Because that would mean Jay might be right.
That maybe Rafe’s feelings were more than just friendly.
Fate
IT FELT GOOD TO GET OUT OF THERE, TO BE AWAY from her, even if the reprieve was only temporary. At least he could breathe again.
He walked his usual route, leaving his house and tracing his way around the university. He liked it there, all the old buildings swathed in vines and foliage. All the history and the architecture. All the places he could vanish, becoming whoever he wanted to be.
His frustration uncoiled a bit as he spied the familiar red awning of the café, even as he scolded himself for ending up here again. He stood back, not allowing himself to go any closer, not allowing himself to go inside. He knew it was a bad idea to come here, a place he’d been too many times before. It was breaking the rules.
He’d already broken them once, and look where that had gotten him.
He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to control his mounting rage as he pictured her . . . screaming. He needed to calm down. She needed him to calm down; it wouldn’t do either of them any good if he went back home while he was this angry.
But if he hadn’t been standing there, counting his breaths and trying to soothe himself, he might have missed her, the girl stepping out onto the sidewalk. She wasn’t his usual type; even from where he stood he could see that much. Her hair was wild and curly, not straight and silken. Her eyes, even though he couldn’t see the exact shade, were most definitely not dark, not the color of spiced cocoa or burnt mahogany. They didn’t warm him. They didn’t soothe him.
But there was something about her. Something that struck a chord in him. Something that made his head spin.
He reached for his phone, tucked deep in his pocket. He was careful with it, keeping his hand over the screen as he scrolled through the images he saved there, images meant only for his eyes.
He bit his lip when he found it, when he realized where he’d seen this girl before.
She’d been there, that day at the Pacific Storage warehouse when the police had arrived. He’d seen her in the parking lot as he’d stood in the crowd, making sure they found his ex-girlfriend, making sure his girl didn’t have to stay there in the dark . . . alone.
And here she was again, at the café—his café—standing silently, looking lost. Looking . . . lonely.
He didn’t know who she was, or why fate had intervened in this way, but when she started walking, he followed her, wondering the entire time what was wrong with him. He had a girlfriend, waiting for him . . . needing him.
He told himself it was nothing, less than nothing. She was just a girl. He was only watching her. It didn’t mean anything.
She stopped then at the newspaper machine, and just as she was poised to take her paper, she froze, every muscle in her body going rigid.
That was when he saw it. Fear.
He understood that.
He knew what it was like to be afraid. To be terrified and alone.
And he knew, too, that he needed to find out more about this girl. That he wasn’t going home just yet.
Chapter 11
VIOLET SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE STARING numbly at the paper plate in front of her. Her mom had saved her some pizza and Violet heated it up when she’d gotten home. It wasn’t late, but Violet felt like it was, and she was glad she’d told her friends she was staying home. She was too tired to do anything but stay in and feel sorry for herself.
Sighing, she pushed the half-eaten pizza away from her and reached for the newspaper she’d brought home with her. Normally she didn’t read the paper, but honestly, she had nothing better to do. It was Friday night and she was at home while everyone else—including Jay—had other plans.
She opened the first page because it seemed like the thing to do, the logical place to start. It didn’t take long, scanning the columns of newsprint, for Violet to realize that the news was generally pretty boring stuff. She skipped the articles on the first few pages about Antonia Cornett, and the continuing search for her killer. Violet knew enough about that
case already, images she’d never be able to purge from her mind.
She was about to close the paper when an article at the bottom of an inside page caught her eye. It wasn’t so much the article that had captured Violet’s interest, however; it was a name: Casey Atkins.
The missing girl.
Violet scanned the all-too-brief article, her heart speeding up as she noted that there was no mention of the serial killer suspected of abducting Casey Atkins. Maybe the story had gone to print before they’d made the connection. Maybe they didn’t want to let the public in on the details.
Maybe it was better if the killer didn’t realize they were on to him . . . for Casey’s sake.
But there was something else about the article that made Violet’s breath catch. A photograph.
It was grainy and small, the black-and-white matrix dot style of newsprint pictures, and she lifted it, holding it closer to the light to get a better view. She bit her lip as she stared at it, trying to decide what it was about the image that niggled at her memory, making her brain reel.
Just as she was about to give up, wilting back into her chair in defeat, it came to her and her hand shot up, covering her mouth. She was reaching for her phone before she could solidify her thoughts.
Rafe answered on the first ring, but she cut him off before a single word was out of his mouth.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” The words rushed from her lips. “You wanna meet me downtown?”
“Um, sure. I guess so. What’s this all about? I tried to call you all day. Is everything all right?”
At the sound of his voice, Violet gritted her teeth. In her enthusiasm, she’d forgotten what Sam had told her about Rafe being different with her. She’d forgotten to worry about what that might mean. And she tried to decide if any of that was even important now. What really mattered was finding a killer, wasn’t it? “I . . . uh . . . I’m fine. Much better. And I think I found something . . . about Casey Atkins.”
“What? How?”
“I went down to Seattle after school today, to a café called The Mecca. I found the name on a receipt the night we were in Antonia Cornett’s house.” She smiled, sitting back now. “Well, actually, you found it. It was in the paperback you were holding when the cop came in. I snagged it when no one was looking.”
“V . . .” The warning in his voice was loud and clear, but Violet ignored him. “Why didn’t you say something? I would’ve gone with you.”
Using her finger, she dragged the plate closer again and picked off a congealed mushroom. “I didn’t have anything better to do, and for all I knew the receipt was a dead end.”
“But it wasn’t?”
She leaned forward once more, balancing on her elbows. “That’s the thing. I don’t really know yet. Meet me there tomorrow and I’ll let you know for sure.”
She hung up the phone and stared at it for several long moments, wondering if it was really such a good idea to spend any more time with Rafe than necessary. She was about to call him back, to tell him she’d changed her mind, when there was a soft knock on the back door.
Violet crept across the kitchen floor on bare feet and peeked outside, craning to see out the window in the door. Her pulse leapt when she saw Jay there, standing on the other side, smiling back at her. He held a pizza box in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.
She turned and quickly dropped her paper plate and cold pizza into the trash can before she unlocked the door and let him in.
“What are you doing here? I sorta thought you’d be going to the party after work.”
Jay set the box on the counter and kicked the door closed behind him. “Are you kidding? You said you couldn’t go out; you didn’t say anything about having to stay home alone. I’d way rather be with you than at some stupid party.” He lifted the bag as if he were offering her a prize. “I brought ice cream. Chocolate-chip cookie dough.”
Violet smiled, taking the plastic bag and setting it by the pizza as she wrapped her arms around him, inhaling deeply and wishing they could have more nights like this. Just the two of them.
“You don’t mind that I came, do you? Should I have called first?”
She shook her head, not wanting to let go of him, grateful that he’d decided to come. That he’d rather be with her than with Jacqueline. “No, of course not. I just hope you realize how important you are to me.”
He squeezed her back, a silent reassurance that he knew, and that the feeling was mutual. Then he picked her up and carried her fireman-style to the family room. Laughing, they dropped onto the couch and Jay kissed her, at last. Violet forgot all about the pizza and the ice cream. She forgot about Jacqueline, and any crazy notions that Jay should be with someone else.
He was hers, plain and simple.
And no one could change that.
Chapter 12
IT HAD BEEN HARD TO SLEEP THAT NIGHT, AND Violet was up way earlier than she needed to be. She was anxious to know if what she suspected was true.
Since she had so much time to spare, she’d decided to swing by the Java Hut on her way out of town to grab a breakfast sandwich and a coffee. She was surprised when she got there and saw Chelsea’s car in the lot. It was early for Chelsea, practically ungodly.
It was fairly busy for a Saturday morning, although Violet didn’t know if that was true or not, since she hadn’t spent a lot of Saturday mornings at the internet-café-turned-restaurant. She found all three of her friends, Chelsea, Claire, and Jules, sitting at one of the booths, plastic menus piled near the edge of the table.
“Hey, what are you guys doing here this early?” Violet asked, sliding into the booth beside Chelsea and giving her a strange look. “And what’ve you done with the real Chelsea?”
“You’re ha-ha-larious, you know that, Vi?” Chelsea retorted, staring back at Violet through the thick lenses of eyeglasses she almost never wore . . . especially in public. “My eyes were killing me this morning. I couldn’t get my contacts in.”
“Are you sure you don’t have pinkeye?” Claire asked, her voice skeptical as she scooted closer to Jules.
Chelsea scowled at her. “I told you, I’m not diseased or anything. Re-freaking-lax, Claire. Do you think I’d be here if I was contagious or anything?”
The waitress arrived then, balancing their orders on a black tray. She flashed Chelsea a similarly distrustful look after overhearing what Claire had said, and she apprehensively slid Chelsea’s plate in front of her. Chelsea ignored the girl completely.
“Softball tournament,” Chelsea said to Violet, answering her earlier question. “Claire’s just along for the ride. We tried calling you like a million times this morning, but obviously we don’t rate.”
“Three,” Violet corrected, ignoring the wave of guilt she felt for ditching them yet again. “You called me three times. Besides, I have somewhere else I have to go . . . an appointment,” she said evasively.
“Yeah, an appointment on a Saturday. Whatever.”
Violet flashed an overly bright grin and tried her best to sound breezy. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, I can tell you rushed right over to see us.”
Violet perused one of the menus, pretending like it didn’t suck to lie to her friends, and then turned to the waitress. “Can I just get a hot tea, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese?”
“Sure, I’ll be right back with that,” the waitress answered, still eyeing Chelsea suspiciously. She didn’t bother asking if anyone needed anything else before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the kitchen.
Making a dubious face of her own, Chelsea glanced down at her plate. She picked up a fork and prodded her runny eggs, making an exaggerated gagging sound. Violet knew it wasn’t a real gag because Chelsea had the strongest stomach of anyone she’d ever met.
From the other side of the booth, Jules’s head snapped up and she glared at Chelsea. Chelsea’s eyes flared behind her glasses, making them look about ten sizes too big. She flashed an apologe
tic grin at Jules before closing her lips tightly, a silent vow to stop making the obnoxious sounds.
But they all knew Chelsea wanted to keep going; Chelsea loved that game. When they were in the sixth grade, she used to pretend she was going to puke, making terrible retching sounds until someone would get sick for real. Rachel Lashly was the first person to ever actually throw up from Chelsea’s disgusting ruse, but she claimed it was only because she was already coming down with the flu . . . and, as hard as she tried, Chelsea had never been able to make her do it again.
Jules, on the other hand, had proven to be the perfect target for Chelsea. For someone who could beat up nearly every boy on the playground, Jules had a surprisingly sensitive gag reflex, something that Chelsea had found endlessly entertaining. Chelsea would make Jules puke at the most inopportune moments, like when the bus was pulling up to pick them up for school. Or at the mall.
And even once in the middle of class.
But that was the day when Jules had had enough. She’d waited for Chelsea on the playground during recess, giving her friend a bloody nose while everyone stood around watching. Jules had been expelled for a week, but Chelsea had never intentionally made Jules vomit again.
Still, it didn’t stop her from pretending her breakfast was making her sick now. “I’m sending it back. This is disgusting.” She swirled her plate, showing how the tops of her eggs jiggled.
Claire pursed her lips. “Don’t do it, Chels. They’ll spit in your food if you send it back. You don’t want them spitting in your food, do you?”
The Last Echo: A Body Finder Novel Page 13
