She turned to see Gemma gaping at them in openmouthed disgust, as if she were eyeballing a horrific car wreck. “I can come back later if you two lovebirds need some time alone.”
Violet blinked as she remembered what Gemma had said about her, about her stinking of death, and she wondered if Gemma smelled it now. Or if there was something else she sensed on her. Something infinitely more private.
Rafe managed to collect himself before Violet did, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doing here, Gemma?” He left the kitchen and went to stand next to Violet.
“Um, believe it or not, Rafe, I still live here. And last I heard, you haven’t had any luck getting me evicted, so deal with it.”
Rafe grabbed Violet’s hand, ignoring the static charge that jolted their skin the moment they touched. “Come on, I’ll show you my room,” he mumbled as he dragged Violet away from Gemma.
Gemma said something behind them, but he just slammed his door, blocking out her words. The bitter tone, however, was unmistakable.
“What is it with her?” Violet asked, peeling her hand from Rafe’s.
But before she could say anything else, she’d looked past him, and she covered her mouth in surprise. And instead of feeling uncomfortable about being alone with him in his bedroom, she suddenly felt laughter bubbling up in her throat. The last thing she’d expected was this kind of neat-freak orderliness. Not from Rafe, with his unkempt hair, ripped jeans, and threadbare T-shirts. It was almost stark it was so tidy.
But it was his bookshelves that really captured Violet’s interest. They were tall, every shelf overflowing, with books stacked in front of books. There were knickknacks too, all perfectly arranged, an old metal lunch box, mismatched picture frames . . . a troll doll with bright pink hair.
Violet wondered if that was the doll Sara had told her about. Sophie’s doll.
“She’s always like that,” Rafe answered, but Violet was ignoring him now as she wandered toward the shelves. She ran fingers along the spines as she read the titles in her head: On the Road, The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, The Giver, Fahrenheit 451. There were classics sitting alongside books by Stephen King, Michael Crichton, and Anne Rule. There was no rhyme or reason to his hodgepodge reading collection. “She’s mad because I’m not the brother she always dreamed of.”
“You think she’s bitchy to me because you’re not nice to her?” Violet stopped, her finger poised over a tattered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.
Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know, kind of.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Violet’s lips quirked, her eyes widening. “Maybe you should teach her to use her big-girl words, and then we’ll know for sure.”
His eyes dropped, but his mouth curved into a shy smile. “I just meant she’s kinda pissed that I haven’t been nicer to her since she moved in. It’s not that I don’t like her or anything . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It’s just that you don’t want to get to know her.” Violet finished his sentence.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and shrugged again. “I guess so.”
Hesitating, Violet spied a photograph sticking out from between two of the books. It was ragged around the edges, but even from her vantage point, Violet could see that Rafe was in the photo beside a blonde girl. Not pale blonde, like Gemma’s—perfectly styled and fashionable. This girl’s hair was darker blonde, more natural-looking.
Without thinking, Violet pulled the picture free and examined the frail-looking girl with black-lined eyes and a pierced lower lip. In the photo, Rafe’s arm was slung possessively around the girl’s neck. He looked . . . happy. “Is this . . . Sophie?”
Something flashed behind Rafe’s eyes—hurt or misery—worse than the physical damage to his body, but gone much more quickly. “Man, she told you everything, didn’t she?”
She recalled her conversation with Sara, the way Sara had opened up about their mother but had been reluctant about discussing Sophie. “She didn’t want to. I asked.”
“I guess it’s my fault. If I hadn’t said her name . . .” He took the picture from Violet’s fingers and slid it back between the books without even glancing at it. “You know, she had it too,” he explained quietly, mournfully. “That thing that happens whenever we touch, that shock between us. I felt it when I touched her too. You two are the only ones I’ve ever had that with.” His gaze flicked nervously to hers.
“So . . . what is it?”
He shrugged, as always. “I don’t know. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. All I know is . . .” His voice lowered. “I don’t hate it.”
Violet’s cheeks burned. “Do you think it’s because you’re . . . that you can . . .”
Rafe stepped toward her and instinctively she backed away. “What? Do I think it’s what?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Because you’re psychic? That we have some sort of weird . . . connection?” Violet turned away from him, her gaze flicking nervously over the titles on the bookshelf again to avoid the intensity of his gaze. “Sam says you’re different with me. Is that true?” And when he didn’t answer, when the silence went on too long and Violet wasn’t sure he understood, she tried again. “Are you? Different, I mean?”
When she heard him speak, his voice was right at her back. She could practically feel his breath against her neck. He was close. Too close, and Violet felt her stomach tighten. “I am,” he whispered, even quieter than usual. “I don’t want to be, but I am.”
Violet shook her head, wanting to deny his words and giving the only answer she could. She didn’t know if she could even breathe.
His hands, both of them, touched her arms while he stood there, behind her. The shock of his touch was overshadowed by the pounding of her heart and the blood beating through her veins.
She heard him swallow, and his fingertips tightened just the barest amount.
Violet squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t know what to say, but everything seemed wrong. “Rafe . . .” was all she managed.
His hands fell away. “I know.” His voice sounded like it was being ripped from his throat. “I already know, you don’t have to say it. I’ve known all along, it’s what I do. It’s one of my gifts.” He practically spat the word, making it sound vile, dirty. “But it doesn’t mean I have to feel the same way. And that’s why I don’t want you around.”
Violet turned to face him, tears stinging her eyes as she blinked furiously, angrily. Why had he said all of this? Why couldn’t he have left things the way they were?
But he wasn’t finished with her yet. “It’s also why I can’t leave you alone.”
Chapter 21
VIOLET FELT LIKE AN IDIOT AFTER SHE LEFT Rafe’s, and she replayed the conversation in her head all the way home. How had she not seen that coming? How had she not known that Rafe’s feelings were more than just . . . friendly?
But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had known. Why else would Rafe have gone out of his way to spend so much time with her, especially when both Krystal and Sam had told her that Rafe avoided everyone else?
Yet somehow she’d deluded herself into thinking that none of that mattered. That if she didn’t feel anything more, then he would never act on his feelings.
Except, maybe she did feel something more.
That’s crazy, Violet insisted, biting down on her lips and tasting blood. I don’t feel anything. Rafe was her friend, nothing more.
She belonged with Jay.
She glanced at the sky and wondered when it had started getting dark, and how she hadn’t noticed the gradual shift from daylight to dusk as she’d left the city. But she knew why. She felt numb. Worn-down and numb.
Relief trickled through her when she pulled into her driveway and realized her parents weren’t home yet, that they were still at her aunt and uncle’s. She texted Jay, asking him to come over when he got off work.
She had no intention of telling him what had happened at Rafe’s house; there was no point giving
him any more reason to be suspicious of Rafe. Besides, Violet assured herself, she had no intention of giving Rafe another chance to share his feelings. At least not those feelings.
For now, she decided, the best thing she could do was to keep her distance from Rafe and hope he got the message.
Violet stretched out on the couch as she wiggled her toes, curling and uncurling them, trying to shake off the irritating prickling sensation she had from sitting too long. She picked up the half-empty Gatorade bottle in front of her and carried it to the kitchen.
Watching the blue liquid slosh down the sink, she squinted at the blinking light coming from the answering machine. She dropped the empty bottle into the recycling bin and pressed the button.
Her eyes widened when she heard Sara’s voice and she leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.
“. . . I just wanted to let you know that I received a threatening phone call from one of the kids involved in the shooting on Sunday. We’re pretty sure he was the brother of the boy who attacked Violet, the one who was . . . killed.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, he made some vague threats about retaliation, all of which were directed against me, but I figured you should know about it. I didn’t call Violet. I’ll let you decide what to tell her, but I’m going to talk to the local police department to see if they can get someone to keep an eye on her . . . just in case. If you have any questions—” Violet stopped the message and listened again, her skin dusting with goose bumps.
She tried to remember the faces of the other two boys, the ones who’d been in the car, but all she could remember were their tattoos . . . their guns . . . and the music.
Then she remembered her missing purse and she trembled. The last time she’d seen it was right before James Nua had attacked her. What if this boy, James’s brother, had picked it up? What if he had her ID, and knew where she lived?
What if revenge on Sara wasn’t all he wanted?
She leaned forward on the counter, biting her thumb as she stared at the light on the machine. When her parents got home they were going to hear that message, and if she thought it was bad now, it was about to get a million times worse. She’d never be able to leave the house again. She wouldn’t be able to go to the bathroom without an escort.
She’d been so worried about her parents’ decision to keep her from her team—from Sara and Rafe—that she hadn’t really considered the possibility that they might actually be right. That she wasn’t safe working with them.
Her finger moved to the Play button so she could listen to the message one more time, but then she changed her mind and watched as she hit Delete instead.
“Message erased,” the electronic voice announced in the dimly lit kitchen.
What had she done? Did she really intend to keep something like this from her parents?
Of course not, she told herself, shaking her head with conviction. Of course she’d tell them. Just not tonight.
Tomorrow. She would definitely tell them tomorrow.
When the phone rang, Violet jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. She hesitated, taking a steadying breath, relieved when she saw it was only Rafe. Part of her wanted to ignore talking to him altogether, to bury her head in the sand and pretend he no longer existed. But she knew she couldn’t do that. It was probably best if she just faced him and got it over with.
On the third ring, she picked it up. “Hello?”
“V, I’m so glad you answered.”
“Um, yeah, that’s what happens when you call someone.” She hoped her voice wasn’t as shaky as she felt.
“I have news,” he breathed enthusiastically. “We’ve got him!”
“What do you mean we’ve got him?” Violet asked, taking a step back.
“Him. The collector.”
Violet fell limply onto one of the kitchen stools and watched as rain outside beaded and drizzled down the windows. And then, because she couldn’t manage anything else, she asked, “How?”
She could hear the unchecked emotion in his voice as his words rushed out. “I saw him, V. They found a woman this morning in a cold storage warehouse, wrapped in a blanket. She was much older than the others, but her nails were painted and her makeup was done, exactly the same as the girls he’s killed before. And she was wearing a locket. Sara managed to get it and bring it home to me.” There was a pause, a silence that Violet strained toward, her eyes expectant as she listened for his voice. “Once I touched it . . . oh my God, I saw everything. Everything.”
Violet had never heard Rafe talk about his ability before, about how it really worked. She tried to imagine how he got all that from simply touching a locket. She was amazed. She wanted to hear everything. “What was it like? What did you see, exactly?”
“I saw him, and I know his name: Caine. He looks so . . . so normal. So sane. Like any other college guy at the campus. I can see why the girls wouldn’t have been afraid of him. But he’s so fucking dark, V. He’s so twisted and messed up inside. He steals them away and keeps them locked up. He wants them to love him. That’s what he’s been searching for all along. Love.”
Violet cringed, imagining what it must’ve been like for those girls, held hostage while he tried to convince them to love him. And she realized he wasn’t just a collector.
He was a girlfriend collector.
“I saw where he lives too. A nice place in the city with a basement that he converted into a dungeon.” He hesitated, letting out a loud breath. “Sara’s on her way there now with the cops. They’re gonna stop him.”
Violet shook her head, blinking, her hands trembling. “I can’t believe it, Rafe . . .” She whispered, her words filled with reverence. “You did it.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for calling me.”
“I knew you’d want to know.” Rafe answered as if nothing had changed between them . . . even though everything had.
Violet hung up the phone, realizing a huge burden had been lifted, one she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying.
Caine wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else.
Thanks to Rafe.
She wished her gift worked like that, that she could help the way he just had. But even if she couldn’t, she was glad to know there were people like Rafe out there. Like her team.
She squeezed her fists again as she paced restlessly, wishing Jay would hurry up and get there, and wanting her hands and feet to stop tingling. She was seriously starting to worry that she was having some sort of delayed neurological reaction to her attack, that maybe she’d been more injured than anyone had realized. Not only could she not shake the tingling sensation, but it seemed to be getting worse.
She finally decided that her blood sugar must be low and she needed food, a sandwich or something. She hadn’t eaten anything all afternoon, and on the drive back from Rafe’s, her stomach had been grumbling noisily.
She pulled some bread, sliced ham, mustard, cheese, and lettuce from the fridge, and was searching for a tomato when she heard the clattering sound coming from the front porch. Closing the refrigerator door, she listened for it again. It was hard to hear anything above the heavy raindrops that pummeled the house, but she concentrated anyway, waiting.
There, she thought when she heard it again. A rustling noise. Someone’s definitely out there.
She checked the clock. Jay was still at work for another half hour, but she picked up her phone anyway, making sure she hadn’t missed a call from him while she’d been on the other line.
There was nothing on the caller ID. Nothing since she’d talked to Rafe.
She knew it was probably just the wind, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. She blamed the stupid prickling that set her hairs on end, that and the message from Sara, for making her so jumpy. Either way, she couldn’t just stand there, waiting to see if an intruder was trying to break into her house, could she?
She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the knife she’d been planning to use on her tomato, and with the pho
ne in the other hand, she tiptoed toward the front door.
Her pulse was racing as she stopped in front of it, pressing her ear against its cool surface as she tried to see out the peephole.
As far as she could tell, there was no one out there. But she waited anyway, straining to hear something . . . anything besides the rain, her fingers tightening around the knife’s grip.
She concentrated on each breath she took, trying to calm herself, to convince herself that everything was fine, that she was just overreacting. It had been a rough week, and her imagination was working overtime.
And then she heard the sound again, a soft scratching on the other side of the door. Like nails . . . or claws, to be precise.
Her shoulders sagged. Carl! It was just the cat, trying to let someone know he was out there.
She laughed out loud as she crept to the window, peering out just to be certain. She saw him sitting there, impatiently flicking his tail back and forth as he waited for someone to let him in. Violet tapped the inside of the window and his head snapped her way, their eyes locking.
“I’m coming.” She grinned, letting the curtain fall back in place as she unbolted the door and stepped aside. “Man, you’re—” She froze, covering her nose with the back of her hand, trying not to drop the phone as the harsh odor of burning rubber assaulted her, making her eyes burn.
Carl had been hunting.
“Oh my God, cat, you reek. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay in here tonight—” she complained, setting the phone down as she tried to scoop the cat up. But he recognized her tone—he’d heard it too many times before—and he slipped past her, racing up the stairs before she could catch him.
“Great,” she muttered, blinking her watering eyes as she waited for the acrid stench to fade. She turned and bolted the door. She’d have to find him and put him out eventually; there was no way she could sleep under the same roof as him until that particular imprint lost some of its . . . impact.
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