Violet couldn’t help laughing, even though she felt bad for the kindergarten version of Krystal. She would have been mortified if the other kids had known about her secret. “So you and this Missy girl, you stayed in touch?”
Krystal smiled deviously. “Let’s just say that one of my invisible ‘friends’ didn’t appreciate Missy flippin’ me crap, and gave me a heads-up about what her future held.” She looked satisfied with herself, a smug smile curving her full lips.
“Wow,” Violet breathed. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Please, I was five. I’ve got better things to do now than worry about whether people think I’m crazy or not.” Krystal toyed with a small rip in her fuchsia tights, reminding Violet that she was more sensitive than she let on.
“Well, if you’re crazy then I guess we all are,” Violet said. “I mean, think about it, you might talk to dead people, but I go out of my way to find them.”
Krystal snorted, glancing up from the hole she was picking at. “You got that right. I guess crazy isn’t all bad. Sometimes crazy saves lives.”
Violet thought about Antonia Cornett—about her ghost—coming to visit Krystal and telling her that Casey Atkins was missing, that she’d been taken by the collector. She stopped watching Krystal’s hot pink fingernails tugging at her frayed tights and watched her eyes instead. “Do you think we’ll find Casey, Krystal? Alive, I mean?”
Letting out a heavy breath, Krystal looked up at Violet. “I hope so, Vi. Goddammit, I really, really hope so.”
Denial
HE WATCHED HER FROM THE DOORWAY, HIS heart aching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently setting the tray on the dresser by the door. “You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
Her wide eyes stared back at him, and he thought maybe—maybe—he should uncover her mouth so she could answer him. Maybe she was ready to be quiet now.
He stepped closer, slowly, so as not to startle her. She had a delicate nature, he’d learned. Like a butterfly. Or a flower. In the end, it was probably the reason they never really clicked, why she couldn’t be the one. There was nothing delicate about him; his mother had always told him so.
That didn’t mean she should be frightened of him now, though.
He slipped the rag away from her lips and frowned when he saw how dry they were.
“Here.” He reached for the tube of ointment on the bed stand. “Let me . . .” Again he was cautious, ever aware of her constitution. He didn’t want her to cry again. And he certainly didn’t want her to scream. “Better?” he asked after applying a generous layer of the cream to her parched lips.
She didn’t answer right away, just kept that frightened-as-a-lamb gaze trained on him until he felt his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.
“Stop it.” His voice quavered, even though he told himself he had nothing to be ashamed of. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I’ve done my best to treat you kindly. I’ve fed you and cared for you when you were all alone. You remember that, don’t you?” He reached out and caressed her cheek. It was fine skin, soft like silk. He closed his eyes, pretending that the two of them could stay like this forever.
When he opened them again, all traces of fear were gone from her eyes. She felt it too, he realized. She wasn’t ready for it to end.
“Can I?” he asked as he lifted the sheet. He climbed in without waiting for an answer. He knew from her expression that she wanted it as much as he did.
His mouth went dry, just as it always did when he got this close to a girl, even the ones he knew this well. It was a thrilling feeling, and he felt bolder . . . he wanted more. His hand traced the soft curve of her belly and he pulled her close, hugging her tightly until they were one body. One mind.
He nuzzled the side of her neck and breathed in the scent of her, hoping he’d never forget this moment as he slipped his hand down the length of her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers.
Already they were stiff and cold.
It was too bad she was so fragile, he thought, as he drew back and glanced into her wide, glassy, unblinking eyes. She could have been perfect. She could have been the one.
Chapter 14
VIOLET HATED THAT SHE’D SPENT SO MUCH TIME standing in front of the mirror the next morning. She’d thrown on jeans and a T-shirt and then, second-guessing her choice, had changed out of the worn athletic T-shirt and slipped on a fitted top with tiny white buttons over a lace-trimmed tank top. She wondered why it mattered. Why she even cared what she looked like all of a sudden. She was only visiting Rafe, after all.
When she caught herself daubing gloss on her lips, she changed her mind again, berating herself as she ripped at the buttons on her shirt. “Stupid Rafe . . . always messing with my head . . .” Tossing the top on the floor, she snagged a zip-front hoodie off a hanger in the closet, causing it to swing violently on the wooden dowel. “I shouldn’t even go see him. If he hadn’t been riding that stupid bike in the first place . . .” She slipped her jacket on and yanked the zipper all the way up to her chin before checking herself in the mirror. She’d left her hair loose, letting it fall in curling cascades around her shoulders. It looked wild and tempestuous, matching the fevered expression in her emerald eyes. “Perfect,” she announced to her reflection as she picked up a piece of tissue and wiped her lips clean once more.
At the last minute, she slipped a long chain around her neck and rubbed the stone, the way she’d seen Krystal do with her own necklaces. Black onyx, Krystal had told her, that’s what the stone was called. It was a meditative stone, used for protection, sort of like an energy shield.
Violet didn’t feel any different, didn’t feel “shielded,” but she liked having the stone, even if it was only because her friend had given it to her.
Her mom had stopped her before she’d made it out the front door. “He’s going to be okay?” Her voice sounded weary, and Violet knew she shouldn’t have been surprised that Sara had already called.
Violet kept her fingers on the doorknob, unsure why she was suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s what they said. They did an MRI and took some X-rays, but when I left they were releasing him to go home. He’ll probably have to take it easy for a while.”
“He’s lucky,” she said. “Ask your uncle Stephen, those things are dangerous.” The way she said “those things” made it sound more like Rafe had been trying to ride a rabid bull than a legal motor vehicle.
But Violet had been hearing the same speech since she was a little girl. Ever since she’d made the mistake of telling her mom she wanted to join a biker gang. She was seven at the time, and didn’t have the guts to tell her parents that the real reason had nothing at all to do with riding motorcycles; she just wanted to be able to say she was a “Hell’s Angel.”
“I know, I know,” Violet insisted, lifting her hands in surrender. “I think that video Uncle Stephen made me watch—what was it called, Death on the Highway?—was enough to scare any kid into driving like a grandmother.”
The sliver of a smile found her mother’s lips. “Tell him I hope he feels better, ’kay, Vi?”
Violet smiled back before ducking out the door, anxious to get out of there, to not be talking about traffic safety with her mother. To not be talking about Rafe.
She hadn’t planned on stopping at the Center, but since it was on her way, and because she was feeling uncertain about going to Rafe’s, she found herself pulling into the small lot despite herself.
Most of the businesses in the warehouse district were closed, lending it a strange, remote feel that it didn’t have during the busy workweek. Since it was a Sunday, Violet hadn’t expected to see any cars in the lot, least of all Sara’s, so she was surprised to find the imposing SUV parked in front.
She turned off the ignition of her battered old Honda as she dug her keycard out of her purse and hurried up the steps of the building.
Inside everything was quiet and dark. All the hallway lights leading to the inner door of the Center h
ad been turned off and there was a disquieting sort of calm to it. There were no sounds, nothing to indicate that anyone else was inside the building, and Violet hesitated at the second secured entrance, her keycard poised above the black magnetic pad. When she’d been issued the security card, Sara had insisted that the Center was available to her any time she needed it, that she was free to come and go as she pleased.
Violet swiped the plastic card in front of the reader and when the green light flashed, she leaned against the door, shoving through it.
“Sara?” Violet called out, but no one answered, and Violet wondered if Sara was actually around after all.
The phone in her pocket vibrated and Violet ignored it. It was probably just her friends again, wondering where she was and why she was avoiding them. Guilt stabbed at her.
She slipped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a soda before wandering to Sara’s workspace, the only place that could actually be considered a real office in the Center, even though there wasn’t a real door to keep anyone out. Sara’s computer was on, and the screen saver changed, a slideshow of landscape images that looked like framed photographs. There was nothing personal about the photos; Violet had seen these snapshots before. They were preprogrammed and had come with the operating system.
Violet tried again, letting her fingers graze over the top of the polished desktop, as smooth and unmarred as Sara herself—everything in its place. She bumped the mouse and the screen saver vanished, and Violet found herself staring at the desktop of Sara’s computer.
But it wasn’t the neatly arranged icons on the screen that she noticed; it was the background image. Not standard. Not preprogrammed.
An actual photograph of Sara with a woman who looked like an older version of herself. A little more worn and weary, but so familiar that Violet was certain they were related. They had the same sharply focused blue eyes.
The same ones that Rafe had.
“Violet? What are you doing here?”
Violet gasped, her hand flying to her chest—away from the mouse—and she hoped Sara didn’t think she’d been snooping on purpose.
She turned, her eyes wide and her heart pounding. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”
Sara’s eyebrow quirked. She still looked tired, her face drawn, with purple shadows smudged beneath her eyes, but she was definitely more pulled together today than she had been at the hospital the day before. Somehow she managed to make even jeans and a sweater look formal. “I just meant, what are you doing here on a Sunday?” And then concern clouded her face and her brows drew together. “Is everything okay?”
Violet offered a hasty nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Sara smiled. “I came in the back way.”
“I didn’t know there was a back way.”
The corner of Sara’s mouth ticked up, as if she had a secret she was dying to share. “There are lots of things you don’t know yet.”
But even as she said the words, they both recognized the truth in them. There were things that she and Rafe hadn’t meant for Violet to know. Yet now she did.
She exhaled. “I guess you have some questions for me. Come on, let’s have a seat.”
Sara led Violet to a seating area and settled onto one of the oversized chairs. She slipped off her shoes, tucking her feet beneath her. Violet sat on the sofa, fidgeting as she tried to get comfortable.
Sara sighed wearily as she leaned against the armrest. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I certainly hadn’t planned to blindside you like that.”
Violet’s lips twitched at Sara’s choice of words. “How had you planned to blindside me?”
Wistfully, Sara smiled back at her, and she looked down at her lap for a moment. “It’s just . . . you’re the first person Rafe has even come close to opening up to since . . .” She hesitated again. “You’re the first friend he’s made since he’s been here.”
“That’s kind of what I’ve heard, but I don’t really get it.”
Sara frowned, lifting her blue eyes as she tried to explain. “You’re different, Violet. He’s different when he’s around you.” Violet recoiled against Sara’s words.
She supposed she hadn’t really believed Sam when he’d told her, but hearing it from Sara . . . she could no longer deny it was true, even to herself.
“What about you?” Violet asked. “He has you, and you’re his . . . sister.” The word sounded strange on her tongue, unfamiliar in the context of the two of them.
Sara grinned slowly, knowingly. “Yes, he has me. And I’ll always be there for him. He’s the reason I formed the team in the first place. When he first told me . . . well, you know, what he could do, it caused . . . problems for him.” She winced, and Violet wondered if she’d even realized she’d done it. “He got into some trouble—it wasn’t his fault—but he needed someplace to go. I offered to take him in.”
“Does everyone else . . . I mean, do the others on the team . . . do they all know about you and Rafe?”
Sara shrugged, reminding Violet so much of Rafe in that moment it was almost eerie. “I imagine they know, or at least suspect. They are psychics, after all. But Rafe prefers it this way, with no one talking about it. He doesn’t want anyone to think he gets special treatment. And I think he feels like the less they know about him, the less they’ll think he’s one of them.”
“But he is one of them.”
Grinning, Sara answered, “Just don’t tell him that. He likes to think of himself as a loner. He doesn’t like to think he needs anyone.” She leaned back. “He’s wrong, though. He needs us, he just won’t admit it.”
“What about your parents? Where are they?” Violet asked, wondering if she was prying.
But Sara didn’t seem to mind. “My dad’s fine and living in Boise. Rafe’s dad—” She sighed. “He’s never been around. He took off after he found out our mom was pregnant. No one’s heard from him since. My parents were divorced when I was four, and Rafe wasn’t born until I was already a teenager. Honestly, I barely noticed him, even though he did everything he could think of to get my attention.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if the memory were painful. “I wish I would have let him tag along all those times he asked me if he could. I wish I’d been a better sister.”
Violet felt bad for her. She didn’t have siblings, but she knew what it was like to have her little cousins following her around, wanting her attention. She couldn’t imagine turning her back on them. “And your mother? Does she live around here?”
Sara frowned. “Our mom died from lung cancer, almost two years ago. The tragedy is, she wasn’t even a smoker. The doctors have no idea how she got it.” Her voice cracked, and Violet felt guilty for asking such personal questions. But Sara continued, blinking against unseen tears. “Rafe went to live with my mom’s sister—our aunt Jenny—after that. I came back for the funeral, but even then, I was so busy . . . overworked . . . and I didn’t realize how . . .” She shrugged, struggling for the right word. “. . . how lonely Rafe was. I mean, I knew he was sad; we both were. But now when I look back, Rafe had completely withdrawn.” She choked on a bitter laugh. “I chalked it up to his age. Aren’t all teens withdrawn and mopey . . . especially the ones who just lost their mother?”
Violet didn’t know what to say. But she wanted to hear more . . . about Rafe. About his past.
“A few months after the funeral, he called me in the middle of the night . . . asking for my help. I already knew he’d run away; my aunt had called in a panic when she’d found his note, so I wasn’t surprised to hear his voice on the other end of the line. In fact, I’d been waiting for it.” Again, that wistful smile touched her lips, and her eyes shimmered a deep, brilliant sapphire. “But boy oh boy, did he surprise me when he started talking, telling me what he could do, telling me where he was and what had happened. I traced the call, and had the local police on their way before we’d even hung up.”
“What . . .” Violet hesitated, not sure she was sup
posed to ask. “What was it? What did he find?”
Biting her lip, Sara’s eyes grew distant as she recalled that night. “That’s the thing, it wasn’t what he’d found, Violet. It was who he’d found. And Rafe hasn’t been the same since.” Her eyes sharpened again. “At least until he met you.”
Violet shook her head, a deep frown furrowing her expression. Her eyes were wide and her heart beat painfully within her chest. She couldn’t find her voice, but she could see from the uncertainty on Sara’s face that she wasn’t sure if she should continue.
Sara’s lips curved into a tight smile, but her eyes remained sad and faraway. “Rafe had a dream about his girlfriend, a girl whose family—her mother and her little brother—had been on the run from her abusive father. At the time I didn’t know anything about his dreams, that sometimes they were more than just dreams. I mean, really, dreams are just dreams, right? But not Rafe’s. Did you know that about him? That he gets flashes, he calls them, of the future? That he dreams things that haven’t happened yet?”
Violet shook her head, not really sure how to answer. Sam had explained a little, but not about the dreams.
Sara’s hand smoothed her hair. “He understood what the dream really meant. He knew that his girlfriend was in danger, that her father had found them, and he decided to go after her . . . to try to save her, I guess.” Her face crumpled. “But when he got there, it was already too late. The girl’s father had slaughtered them all and had already taken off.”
“Kind of like what James Nua had done to his family,” Violet whispered.
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