The Last Echo (12 page)

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.

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 apologetic 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?”

Chelsea grimaced as she watched her eggs quiver. “It would be better than eating this slop.”

“I hate to be the one to point this out, but that
is
the way you ordered them, Chels.” Jules raised her eyebrows as she lifted a hefty bite of pancakes to her full, naturally rosy lips. “What did you think ‘sunny-side up’ was, anyway?”

“I didn’t think it meant ‘half-cooked.’ They need to put a warning label on the menu or something.” She lifted her hand and waved frantically, trying to get the waitress’s attention. Over her shoulder, she declared, “I don’t care what you guys say, I’m sending it back.”

Violet watched Claire’s face fall. “Great,” Claire whined. “I guess that means we can’t come back here again either.”

“You can have my bagel,” Violet offered Chelsea, taking pity on Claire. “I’m sure it’ll be here any minute.”

Chelsea dropped down again, glowering because the waitress had spotted her but was ignoring her, filling coffee for other customers and pretending she hadn’t seen Chelsea’s frantic gestures. “Bitch,” Chelsea muttered. “Wait’ll she sees her comment card.”

Violet bit her lip. “Have you ever actually filled out a comment card, Chels?”

“You don’t know. I might fill one out this time.” Chelsea crossed her arms as she slouched back in the booth, daring one of them to argue with her while she waited for Violet’s bagel to arrive. “By the way, you dodged a bullet last night. The party was totally lame.”

Violet thought about her night, about staying home with Jay, eating pizza and watching movies, and she smiled inwardly. Lame was the last thing her night had been.

“What took you so long? I’ve been here for half an hour. I’d’ve gone in without you, but I have no idea what I’m looking for.” Rafe scowled as Violet joined him outside The Mecca, his arms crossed impatiently.

The cloudless sky overhead gave the impression that the day should’ve been brighter, sunnier, but instead it just felt cold and empty. Like a vast gray wasteland.

Violet felt a twinge of satisfaction. She liked that she knew something he didn’t, especially since, according to Sam, he was the one who had the cool precognition thing going on. “Sorry,” she tried, but she didn’t sound nearly as repentant as she should have. “I ran into some friends.”

He looked at his watch. “Some of us still value other people’s time.”

She rolled her eyes, suddenly feeling like she had an idea why he wasn’t winning any charm contests. “Whatever. Don’t be such a baby. Besides, it’s not like you had anyplace better to be, or you wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to meet me in the first place.”

“Or,” Rafe said as he reached out to get the door for her, holding it so she could go in ahead of him, “I want to catch this sicko.”

Violet faltered. Of course that was it, she chided herself, embarrassed for thinking otherwise. Why else would he be wasting his Saturday with her?

She felt unsettled as she stepped inside the café and surveyed the art wall and the congested tables and chalk menu. That artsy appeal that Violet had felt just a day earlier was lost on her now, tainted with what she thought she knew, what she hoped to confirm by being here today.

“So? This is it, huh?” Rafe asked, but his eyes were on Violet, not on the café.

“Why?” Violet stepped closer to him, her voice dropping. “Do you sense something?”

He shot her an amused look. “Do I
sense
something? Really? That’s the best you can do? Do you want me to check for evil spirits while I’m at it?” He smirked. “I was only asking because
you
said this was the place.”

“Whatever. You don’t have to be such a jerk,” Violet told him, her cheeks burning. “I was just thinking that maybe . . . you could,” she stammered. “Maybe you might
feel
something?”

Rafe tipped his head closer, until it was right next to hers, and suddenly she was far too aware of him. Of his lips and the blazing blue of his eyes. He quirked an eyebrow at her, just one. “I have to actually touch something to feel something. Just FYI.”

“Oh?” Violet said, nodding.

“Yeah. That’s pretty much how it works.”

“Do you want to?” she breathed. “I mean touch something?” Her heart was racing, slamming so violently it felt like a sledgehammer, and she worried it might actually crack a rib.

He inched the tiniest bit closer, his breath mingling with hers. “I do,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper as his daring blue eyes held hers . . . longer than they should have. “But I think we should order a coffee so you can tell me what this is all about. Don’t you?”

Violet wanted to nod, but she was too afraid to. Their lips were far too close. Dangerously close. “Sure.”

She blinked when he pulled back and strode toward the counter, his heavy boots thudding along the floor, and she followed him, feeling bemused. She was relieved that the red-haired girl wasn’t working today.

“What can I get you?” the boy behind the counter asked.

Rafe ordered quickly, just a black coffee, the same way Sam had ordered his. He reached for his black leather wallet, which was strung to the hip of his jeans by a steel chain, and pulled out a twenty. And then the two of them stood there, waiting for Violet to decide as she searched the corkboard for a recommendation.

For one recommendation in particular.

Finally she said, “I’ll have that one.” She pointed to the snapshot of a dark-haired girl with shiny hair and big brown eyes. “A green-tea soy latte.”

The boy didn’t even turn to look at the corkboard, but Violet could see his jaw tense and he blinked hard several times. “That’s Casey’s drink.”

Violet nodded. It was all the confirmation she’d needed.

“How did you know?” Rafe asked as they took a table in the back. He dropped into the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Violet’s drink was too hot, and she took a small, careful sip before setting it on the table. “I saw her photo . . . well, a really grainy photo in yesterday’s paper after I was here. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t be sure it was her until I came back to look at the corkboard.” She frowned. “I’m almost sorry it
was
her. Did you see his face? I hate knowing them. I hate knowing who they were. I mean, are,” she corrected quickly. Casey Atkins wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. “But you know what this means, don’t you?”

“That you were right?”

“No,” she said uncertainly. “Well, yeah, I guess so. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Rafe took a swig of his coffee, hiding his grin behind his cup. “I thought that’s what girls liked to hear . . . that they’re right.”

Violet threw her napkin at him. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? No, it means that Antonia Cornett and Casey Atkins might have known each other. At the very least, they have this place in common.” Suspiciously, she glanced at everyone in the café around them. There was a couple, their heads bent together over the table until they were practically touching as they whispered quietly to each other. At another table was a group of girls that reminded Violet of her friends. They were animated and loud and they talked over one another, and then laughed even louder at their own jokes. “He might have found both of them here.”

Violet half-expected Rafe to make fun of her, to tease her about going all Nancy Drew on him, but when she looked back at him, she saw that he was thinking the same thing she was, his gaze appraising everyone.

“We have to tell Sara,” Violet whispered.

Rafe gave a sharp, determined nod, and then he downed the rest of his coffee and slammed his cup on the table. “You’re right. She needs to know this. It could be something. I’ll tell her when I get back to the Center.” He stood quickly.

Violet jumped up too. “No way, I’m coming with you,” she insisted, reaching out to stop him. She was the one who’d figured it out; she didn’t want to be left out.

She’d gotten used to the quick burst of static that erupted between them whenever they touched, but this time, when her fingers clasped around his wrist, the sensation jolted her, both physically and emotionally. She felt the ground shift, not literally, but the effect was just as unsteadying. She jerked her hand back, squeezing her fist into a tight ball.

Rafe must have felt it too, because his eyes flashed, finding hers and holding them with dark warning.

Neither of them spoke; they just watched each other warily for several long moments.

Finally a slow grin spread over his face. “Well, that was awkward.”

Violet flexed her fingers, still awed by the strange sensation rippling through her. “Do you mind explaining what the hell that is?” she asked. “You feel it too . . .
don’t you
?” Her thoughtful green eyes lifted to his.

“Yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. “I felt it. And you should really keep your hands to yourself, V. That shit freaks a guy out.” But his voice had dropped and his tone had grown serious. His gaze clouded over.

“What? You think it was me? You think
I
did that?” Violet scrutinized him. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”

And then she watched as his defenses dropped back into place, the wall that insulated him from everything. From everyone. His expression smoothed and his voice turned cool, emotionless. “Yeah, V, you’re not the first girl I’ve ever touched.” He turned away from her and marched toward the door. “Come on, we have a job to do. Why don’t we concentrate on that?”