The Last Echo (10 page)

“What d’you mean?” Sam asked, his lip curled in disgust. “They think
he’s
the anonymous caller who told them where to find the bodies? Why would he do that?”

Sara’s mouth pulled into a tight line as she shook her head. “They have no idea. But so far the phone numbers he called from have been tracked down to disposable cell phones, and the receipts have been dead ends. Whoever he is, he’s careful, that’s for sure.”

Beside her, Rafe let out his breath, and Violet felt the way he sounded. Disgusted.

“Violet, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?” Sara asked as the rest of the team descended on the box sitting on the conference table.

Violet got up and followed Sara to her private workstation. When Sara turned around to face her, she frowned. “Didn’t I just say
alone
?”

But behind her, Violet heard Rafe, his voice low. “I wanted to talk to her too. I figured it was better to do it here than in front of everyone else.”

Sara crossed her arms but released a resigned sigh. “Fine.” She turned to Violet. “I just wanted to see how you were doing, after last night with James Nua. You look . . . you look tired, Violet.”

Violet glanced self-consciously over her shoulder at Rafe. “I am, sort of.” She shrugged. “I mean, you
did
call me in the middle of the night.”

Rafe swiped at the back of his neck, looking apologetic. “Sorry about that. I thought you’d want to know.”

Violet managed a weak smile. “Of course I did. But I’m still tired.”

“But you’re okay?” Sara interrupted. “Other than that, I mean?”

“Yeah. I’m a little groggy from the pills Dr. Lee gave me, but I’m fine.”

Violet watched as a silent look passed between them, something she didn’t quite grasp. And then Sara reached for an envelope on her desk, handing it to Violet. “I almost forgot. This is yours.”

Violet slid the flap open and peered inside, her stomach coiling. She felt strange taking a paycheck for an ability she had no control over, but Sara reacted before Violet could protest . . . again. “Violet, we’ve talked about this. It’s your job now. I couldn’t ask you to do these things and not expect to compensate you. Besides, how else are you supposed to afford all your gas money? Buckley’s not exactly around the corner.” She smiled patiently. “Now try to get some rest. Who knows, I might need you again tomorrow.”

Violet shook her head but stopped short of arguing. She folded the envelope and stuffed it in her pocket. It wasn’t until she turned around that she nearly gasped, surprised to find Jay sitting in the kitchen. He was across from Gemma at one of the small Formica tables, and she was cupping one of his hands in both of hers, her fingertip grazing the creases that ran through his palm. Neither seemed aware of Violet, and she watched in stunned silence as Gemma first glanced at Jay’s face, and then closed her eyes, as if deep in concentration.

Violet was about to storm over and put a stop to whatever Gemma was trying to pull, when Rafe grabbed her by the sleeve, jerking her to a halt. “Wait a sec, will ya? I wanna see where this is going.”

Violet frowned, turning her glare on Gemma once more. “You’ve got to be kidding. She’s not really telling his fortune, is she?”

“What an amateur,” Krystal tried to whisper, sneaking up on the two of them from behind and draping her arms around their necks.

But Jay and Gemma had heard Krystal too, and they looked up to find the three of them standing there, watching as they huddled over the top of the table. Jay jerked his hand away from Gemma’s, hiding it in his lap while his cheeks burned red.

Gemma just smirked at Violet, cocking her head. “Look who was sitting out in his car . . . all by himself.” Her voice was pouty, as if she were talking about a lost puppy.

Violet narrowed her eyes at the other girl as she swallowed the lump that had formed in the back of her throat.

Rafe sauntered over to the table and flipped one of the chairs around so he was straddling it. “Did you see anything interesting?” he queried, propping his chin against the back of the chair as he glanced from Gemma to Jay.

Gemma’s perfectly painted lips upturned in a slow, evocative smile. “Sure, a lot of stuff. I’m sure you’d be very interested,” she finished, letting the words hang between them, her brown eyes locked with his blue ones.

Krystal’s arm was still wrapped around Violet’s neck and she tugged her closer, so that her mouth was right at Violet’s ear. “That one’s like a snake. She’ll strike if you don’t watch your back,” she managed in the first quiet voice Violet had ever heard her use.

But Jay was already jumping up, rubbing his palm nervously on his jeans. “You all done?” he asked, his eyes widening in a silent plea. “We should probably get going—it’s getting late.”

Violet decided to let him off the hook; it wasn’t his fault Gemma had it out for her. Besides, she didn’t want Sara to see him and think she was the one who’d invited him inside. “He’s right,” she agreed. “We’ve got school.”

Violet grabbed Jay’s hand and dragged him through the Center, watching his reaction and remembering how she’d felt the first time she’d been there. High-tech didn’t begin to describe the wide-open interior with its oversized plasma displays mounted on the walls, state-of-the-art computer workstations, and security cameras that tracked movement throughout the Center.

“Surveillance, huh?” Jay breathed, his eyebrows inching up a notch. “Pretty high-tech.” This time, unlike when he’d first seen the outside of the building, he actually sounded a little awed.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?”

Jay leaned down. “I forgive you.” He grinned enthusiastically.

“For what?” The rest of her team was just steps away, and Violet’s stomach knotted angrily.

His voice dropped. “For ditching me all the time. This is way cooler than hanging at the Java Hut.”

THE SCREAMING HAD STARTED EARLY, AND EVEN
though he couldn’t hear her from upstairs—not with all of the precautions he’d taken in preparing her room—the speakers on the monitor he looked at still blared with her staticky cries. He covered his ears as he rocked himself . . . forward and backward . . . forward and backward. He watched as she pounded on the doors, the walls, and even precariously balanced on her bed as she strained to reach the ceiling overhead, beating her fists against it. She had no way of knowing that no one could hear her, that her every effort was in vain.

Maybe it had been too soon. Maybe she hadn’t been ready for the freedom he’d offered when he’d released her from her restraints.

But he’d hoped . . .

He uncovered his ears, once again letting her hoarse shrieks find their way into his head, letting the sounds echo inside the walls of his skull, reverberate through his skin. Making his hair stand on end.

The screaming was more than he could bear. It always was.

He reached out and turned the volume all the way down as he paced toward the kitchen. He reached into the sink, pulling out a dirty bowl, and rinsed it hastily beneath the faucet. Without even bothering to dry it, he filled the sticky bowl with soup—the same special soup he’d made for her the night before—and he shoved it into the microwave.

He waited only seconds before pressing the cancel button and jerking the bowl out again. Soup sloshed over the sides of the bowl. He didn’t care if her food was warm. He didn’t care if it was good or that the bowl was still dirty. She would eat it, whether she wanted to or not. She had to. He had to stop her from screaming.

And then he’d get out of the house for a bit. Get some fresh air so he could think again . . . and he had a lot to think about right now.

Maybe she wasn’t the right girl for him after all.

VIOLET HAD KNOWN BEFORE SHE WAS FULLY
awake the next morning that she’d overslept, and she vaguely wondered why her parents hadn’t come in to wake her. She’d heard a faraway buzzing sound—something that sounded strangely like her cell phone—but even in the fuzzy depths of sleep she knew that couldn’t be it. It wouldn’t have mattered, though; she’d been unable to rouse herself.

It was the dream again. The one from the night before, with the dark, faceless man. Only this time she wasn’t drowning. This time he was coming after her, his fingers reaching for her . . . and she knew what he wanted. She knew he meant to choke her, in the same way he’d strangled all those other girls.

She awoke drenched in sweat, and released a shuddering sigh into her pillow as she clutched it in her hands. Blinking hard, she lifted her head and glanced down at the fabric she held. But it wasn’t her pillow at all. It was soft fleece she gripped until her knuckles were white and her fingers ached.

The moment she recognized it, she threw it down, wondering how it had gotten there in the first place. And then she glanced at her nightstand and saw the phone there. Her cell phone. Beneath it was a note from her mother, and she realized it was probably her mom who’d folded her hoodie and placed it on her bed too.

She picked up the note.

You can have this back on a probationary basis. Mess up again,
and it’s ours for good!
XOXO,

Mom

Of course Violet knew what this was really about. Her parents had hated being unable to reach her, not being able to call and check up on her. Still, the hugs-and-kisses were a nice touch, she thought; glad to have her phone back, no matter the reason.

She scrolled through the messages and realized that she hadn’t been dreaming after all; there were calls and texts from Jay, Chelsea, and Jules, asking where she was. Already she’d missed first period, she realized as she glanced at the time.

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 decide 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.