The Last Echo

by Kimberly Derting

  “Higher!” Cassidy squealed from the swing beside Violet’s. Even at three, the little firecracker wanted to do what everyone else did as she tried to keep up with her older cousin.

  Violet dropped her feet, letting them drag through the gravel to slow herself down. “No, Cass. That’s as high as you can go. Maybe when you’re older.”

  “I’m older,” the little girl pouted. But her argument was forgotten when Jay pushed her again, jolting her just the tiniest bit higher. Her small fingers tightened around the metal links, and she shrieked with unconcealed delight.

  Violet wrapped her elbows around the chains of her swing. “It was a good idea, wasn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “I just didn’t want to sit around the house anymore. I didn’t want to hear my mom talk about me and the team and Sara. I hate the way she looks at me, like she can’t decide whether she should hug me or scold me.”

  Kat brought the kids to this park all the time, and Violet glanced over to watch Joshua play with a little girl he seemed to know. The two of them made their way up the ladder to the top of the slide; then they sat one in front of the other—forming a very short train—and slid down together, falling in a heap in the gravel at the bottom. The little girl’s mother watched from the bench she sat on, glancing up occasionally with mild interest to make sure neither of the kids got hurt.

  To Violet, watching the kids play was like glimpsing into the past. She could see herself in the girl, and Jay in her little cousin. They had once been like that. They had been those carefree kids.

  And then she giggled as she thought about where they were now, on the swing set, in the park, and she realized they still were like that.

  “What?” Jay asked slyly, taking Cassidy’s place on the swing as she hopped off to go join her brother and his little girl friend.

  “Don’t climb the ladder, Cass,” Violet called after her. “It’s too high!” And then, shrugging, she mused, “I was just thinking about us.” She leaned her cheek against her hand as it clutched the chain.

  Jay nudged his swing sideways, so it nearly brushed Violet’s. “What about us?”

  “I was just thinking how cute we must have been, when we were their age.” She glanced toward the kids, who were racing up the ladder again.

  His arm snaked out, capturing her before the momentum of his swing could drag him away again. When the swing did pull, they both moved in that direction. “We’re still cute,” he said, but his voice was low and filled with unspoken longing.

  She lifted her chin, their faces just inches apart now, and Jay’s grip around her waist kept them together. “Yeah?” she breathed. “You think so?”

  His other hand moved to rest on the side of her face, covering her bruise . . . not concealing it but cradling it. His thumb shifted, stroking the tender path of skin. “I do, Vi. I think we’re perfect.”

  She felt vibrations throughout her entire body. Even her lips tingled. She couldn’t imagine being loved more. Didn’t think there was anyone she’d rather be loved by.

  His mouth grazed hers, intensifying the tingling sensation until she felt like every nerve in her body was alive . . . alert. “Jay,” she whispered.

  “Vi, I’m glad your parents are making you quit the team. I just . . .”

  “Jay!” the little girl’s voice squealed, interrupting them. “Catch me!”

  Looking up, Violet saw Cassidy perched atop the tall slide, her arms waving to them. “I’m bigger!” she announced proudly.

  As if their actions were synchronized, they both jumped off the swings at the same moment, Jay racing toward the laddered steps as Violet rushed to reach the bottom of the slide.

  “Come on down, Cassie. I’ll catch you,” Violet coaxed.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed obstinately, her voice so determined, yet so tiny, reminding Violet how little she really was. “No. Jay can catch me.”

  “Jay’s right behind you. Stay there, he’ll help you get down.”

  Cassidy turned to see Jay, who was almost to the top of the ladder, and then she turned back to Violet, her expression changing dramatically. “He’s gonna get me . . .” The singsong quality of her voice was frantically enthusiastic. This was definitely a game to her.

  Just as Jay was in arm’s reach, Cassidy giggled and leaned forward, launching herself down the slide. She went fast . . . faster than Violet had expected the tiny three-year-old to go, almost as if the slide had been greased.

  By the time she reached Violet’s outstretched arms, she was moving like some sort of missile bent on a path of destruction. And when she collided against Violet’s chest, Violet gasped sharply from the impact. Yet even as she wrapped her arms tightly around her cousin, she heard herself scolding her. “You can’t do that, Cass . . . you scared me . . . you could’ve gotten hurt. . . .”

  And as she said the words, she heard them in her own head, repeated back to her . . . in her mother’s voice.

  Violet grimaced, dragging herself awake as she realized she’d fallen asleep on the couch. The television flickered through the dark room. Her dad must’ve turned the volume all the way down before he’d gone up to bed because there was no sound coming from it.

  She had to admit, she was glad he’d stayed up with her. Even though she didn’t always agree with her parents, she could count on her dad to be the voice of reason.

  “Do you hate us?” her dad had asked when he’d joined her on the couch while she’d absently flipped through the channels.

  Still trying to ignore him, Violet shook her head. “Nope. Not hate,” she’d answered. “Just . . .” She shrugged. What? she wondered. Frustrated? Irritated? Sad? “I don’t know, pissed, I guess.”

  Her dad made a tsking sound, a warning to watch her language, but he’d asked, “At us?”

  Violet turned to look at him, considering his question. “Well, yeah. But not just at you. At everything, I guess. I really don’t wanna talk about it, if that’s okay.”

  He’d patted her knee but stayed where he was, quietly staring at the screen. After a moment, he said, “You can be mad, Vi. At me, and your mom . . . at whatever you want. Just don’t stay that way. Hate and anger are tough emotions to hang on to. They’ll eat you up.”

  Violet had sighed. It was so hard to stay mad at her dad, and after a few moments, she’d leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wish you’d trust me to decide if I should stay on Sara’s team or not.”

  He’d tipped his head so it was leaning on top of hers. “I know you don’t understand this now, but sometimes you need to trust us to make the best decisions for you.”

  They’d stayed there like that, the silence stretching, until finally he patted her knee, calling a truce and changing the subject. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to Uncle Stephen’s with us tomorrow night? Aunt Kat’s making tacos. I know you like tacos.”

  Violet shook her head. “No thanks. I’m not feeling up for it. I’m gonna see if Jay wants to come over and hang out.”

  His brows had drawn together. “Are you sure you’re okay, Vi? Anything I should be worried about?”

  Violet exhaled noisily and stretched her legs. “Nope. I really don’t feel like being social.” She squeezed her hands, making fists with both of them and opening them again. “But mostly I’m just exhausted.”

  Chapter 20

  VIOLET GLANCED DOWN AT THE PIECE OF PAPER Sara had ripped from her notebook just before she’d left the hospital, just a scrap . . . with an address scribbled on it. Sara’s address. Rafe’s address.

  The huge brick-and-steel building she stood in front of was just blocks from Chinatown and definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d expected to find when she got there. She chewed on the side of her finger, rethinking her decision to come here at all. Maybe it would’ve been better if she stayed away from Rafe. She couldn’t help remembering the way she’d itched to reach across the sheets that day at the hospital, and she wondered if it hadn’t been more than just concern over an injur
ed friend.

  Her thumb was hovering over the buzzer as she tried to decide, part of her wanting to stay, part of her wanting to flee, when she saw Rafe pushing open the entrance to the building, an imposing outer door with bars across the paned glass.

  “Hey,” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious about showing up without calling first. “How did you know I was here?”

  Rafe studied her, and a part of her expected him to say he’d predicted her visit, but what she got was far less interesting. “I had to get up and stretch my legs. I don’t care what Sara says, it can’t be good for anyone to stay in bed that long. I saw your car when I was looking out the window.”

  “Is she here?” Violet asked.

  “Sara? No.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “What about you? Do your parents know you’re here?”

  Violet shook her head. If her parents had their way, she didn’t know when she’d have the chance to see him—or anyone on the team—again. “I just . . . I just wanted to make sure you were . . . okay.”

  He shoved away from the door as he took a long stride toward her, letting the door slam behind him. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, cringing, his voice filled with concern.

  Violet knew how she looked. The bruise on her cheek had turned a strange combination of green, yellow, and purple. The swelling had gone down, but not enough for anyone else to notice. “I’m fine.” She hedged and then tried to shrug it off. “If you like bar-fight chic.”

  His face darkened. “I wasn’t really talking about what’s on the outside.”

  “You mean, like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts?”

  Rafe grimaced, the ghost of a smile finding his lips. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds sort of . . .”

  “Sweet?”

  “I was gonna say lame. But, yeah, I guess that works too.”

  “Yeah? Well, you look . . .” She was going to say better, but she practically stumbled over the word. He looked anything but better. If she looked beat-up, he looked downright thrashed. Even behind the bandages, Violet could see scrapes and mottled skin. “Terrible. You look terrible.” She moved closer to him on the landing as he unlocked the closed door. “But better than the last time I saw you, I guess.”

  Rafe tried to laugh, but winced and grabbed his ribs. “Damn, V, I wouldn’t plan on a career in nursing if I were you; your bedside manner stinks.” His eyes clouded over when he saw her stroking the black onyx hanging from around her neck. “Krystal?” he asked.

  “For protection,” Violet clarified.

  “Um, yeah, I got one too. Mine’s for healing.” He tugged at the silver chain around his neck. He held up an irregular-looking stone that had been tucked beneath his shirt. It was cloudy—opaque—and Violet wondered at the mystical qualities Krystal believed it possessed. “I meant it’s from Krystal. Right?”

  “Oh, yeah . . . right.” She nodded, realizing she’d misunderstood his question.

  He let her inside and she followed him into the vestibule as he pressed the button in front of an ancient-looking elevator.

  Grinding and shuddering, the elevator sputtered to a stop at the ground floor, the door opening loudly. Violet hesitated. “Are you sure that thing’s safe? Looks sorta sketchy.”

  Rafe winked at her, holding his hand out mockingly. “After you.”

  She wasn’t wrong; the elevator was sketchy. The thing just felt old, unstable beneath her feet. It was smaller than the more modern elevators in the high-rises around the city. Cramped and dark, like being trapped inside a coffin.

  She shifted nervously. “You know, a little exercise never hurt anyone.”

  Rafe pressed the button and then leaned casually against the railing, shoving his hands in his pockets as he studied her. “It’s five floors up. You can walk if you want, but I’ll take my chances.”

  The elevator started upward, jerking unsteadily and making screeching and grating sounds that couldn’t possibly mean anything good. “If this thing goes down, I’m totally blaming you,” Violet insisted, gripping the worn brass handrail on her side.

  “Are you gonna freak out every time you come over? It’s just an elevator, V,” Rafe criticized.

  “What makes you think I’m coming over again?” she shot back, leaving him behind in the elevator the moment the doors slid open.

  Once inside the hallway, Violet could only see one door on the entire floor: a large, arched door that was coated in layers of peeling black paint. Without inviting her to follow, Rafe brushed past her to open it, leading the way inside.

  Again, Violet was taken aback by what she saw, wondering what it was exactly that she’d expected.

  The place he shared with Sara practically oozed urban charm. It was the kind of high-ceilinged loft Violet had always imagined in places like New York or San Francisco, yet somehow never imagined so close to home in Seattle. There were visible rafters and ductwork, tall exposed brick walls, and dark wood floors that practically gleamed. It was spacious in the same way the Center was spacious, but that was where the similarities between the two ended.

  Unlike the Center, with its modern, high-tech, officey feel, Sara and Rafe’s loft was definitely a home. The kitchen had been remodeled—or more likely had been built from scratch—and looked like something out of a kitchen design magazine. There were granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and low-hanging pendant lights enclosed in amber-colored glass that gave off a soft, inviting glow. Even the furniture, although modern, with low backs and squared corners, was warm and inviting, upholstered in shades of rich red and gold and brown.

  “Wow,” Violet breathed. “I can’t believe you live here.” This was a far cry from her Buckley farmhouse.

  “Wait’ll you see the view.” He started to reach for her hand, and then drew back quickly. “C’mon, it’s sort of incredible,” he explained, leading her toward the giant windows that overlooked the city below.

  Joining him, Violet could see buildings and bridges, and train tracks and traffic, stretching all the way down to the waterfront. She wanted to stay there until the sun went down. To watch as the sky darkened and lights all over Seattle flickered on, taking on a life of their own.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Rafe swayed, bumping her shoulder so lightly she almost didn’t feel it.

  Except that it was all she felt . . . and her cheeks burned as her breath caught in the back of her throat.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, she warned herself silently. Rafe shouldn’t make me feel like this.

  But it was nothing. Less than nothing, she insisted, feeling foolish for arguing with herself. Rafe was just her friend. He wasn’t Jay. He could never be Jay.

  “I heard about Casey,” Violet said, unable to stop the words. “I wish we could’ve saved her. I wish I could’ve been more . . . useful.”

  Rafe glanced down at her. “You were useful, V. You were the one who found the connection to the café. Who knows, that could be the key. Sara says killers have ‘hunting grounds’ and maybe that’s his. At least they have a place to start.”

  Violet thought about that. It wasn’t nothing, she supposed. “So, you and Sara, huh?”

  Rafe shifted on his feet, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets as he gazed back outside. “You mean that she’s my sister? Kinda no big deal, V. We’ve been related pretty much our entire lives.”

  “So why not tell everyone?”

  Rafe flinched, almost as if the words had been tangible, painful. He stood there for a moment, an uneasy silence engulfing them, and then stalked away, leaving her standing alone at the window. He went to the kitchen and started going through cupboards, searching for nothing in particular. “Everyone knew,” he said quietly. “You were the only one who seemed surprised by the news.”

  “Because you never told me. No one ever told me.”

  His back was still to her as he opened the fridge. “You never asked.”

  But now she was the one who felt hurt. She glowered at him, wishing she cou
ld shoot daggers with her eyes. “Are you kidding? I have to ask or you won’t tell me anything? How was I supposed to know what to ask? You and Sara, that’s kind of a big deal. Seems like something one of you could’ve mentioned.”

  Rafe slammed the door but didn’t turn around. Violet waited, wondering why he couldn’t just admit he’d made a mistake by not telling her sooner.

  When at last he faced her, his cheeks were flushed, hot and red, and his eyes glittered brightly. “Not everyone has what you have,” he bit out, his voice cold, like an arctic whisper. “Not everyone has parents and a home and people who care about them. After what happened with Mike and Megan . . . with their dad—” The mention of that night in the mountain cabin made Violet recoil. “You should understand that some of us have gone through things that we don’t want to share with everyone.”

  She took an uncertain step forward, not willing to let it go. “All I wanted to know was why you didn’t tell me Sara was your sister.”

  “Because. I don’t want you to know me, Violet.”

  Violet stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  He’d called her Violet. Rafe didn’t call her that; he called her “V,” his own personal nickname for her. She’d never minded, always thinking it was kind of endearing.

  It hadn’t dawned on her before what it really was: his way of keeping her away.

  Violet wanted to close the distance, to reach out to him.

  Instead, she said, “I won’t hurt you, Rafe.”

  His lashes looked impossibly black and thick against his pale skin, and suddenly he looked more boyish than Violet could have imagined possible.

  Her chest ached and she blinked hard. She tried to find her voice, tried to think of something else to say, but there was nothing. Just silence. And need.

  “Am I interrupting some sort of moment here?” Gemma’s voice sliced through the still that hung between them, and Violet couldn’t believe that neither of them had heard the front door open.