The Last Echo (16 page)

“VIOLET! VIOLET, ARE YOU HURT?” SARA’S HAND
was at her shoulder, but it was her voice, so dynamic, so . . .
alive
, that made Violet tremble with relief.

She pushed herself off the ground, sitting up on her knees while she collected herself.

Sara gave her the once-over, then glanced back toward the street, her weapon still clutched in her hand as she watched for signs that James Nua might reappear.

“Don’t worry.” Violet smiled weakly. “He’s gone.”

“You sure?”

Violet nodded and Sara visibly relaxed, letting her hand—and her gun—drop to her side. “Just stay put for a sec,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “You don’t look so good.”

Violet didn’t feel very good either, but mostly she just felt shaken. Well, aside from her bloodied fingers and a throbbing eye. She listened as Sara dialed someone at the police department directly, rather than calling 9-1-1.

When she hung up, Sara squatted beside her. “What about you?” She reached out and prodded Violet’s cheek, her intrusive fingers probing the base of Violet’s eye socket. It took every ounce of willpower Violet had not to cry out, but the last thing she wanted was to let on how badly she was injured. All she really wanted was to go home, take a long, hot bath, and crawl into bed.

Scratch that, just the bed. And maybe some extra-strength Tylenol.

“I don’t feel anything moving,” Sara said almost absently as her fingers explored the injury, and Violet had to bite down on the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering. “How’s this?” Without warning, Sara applied pressure.

Violet jolted and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting until the stars behind her eyelids disappeared. She reopened them slowly, her hands fisted at her sides, somehow managing not to cry. “It’s—
it’s fine
,” she hissed from between clenched teeth. “Great, in fact. I think it probably looks worse than it is, you know?”

She definitely didn’t want Sara calling an ambulance. She already didn’t know how she was going to explain this to her parents.

Her parents.
Her stomach dropped and her head reeled. There was no way she wanted to explain that she’d just been attacked outside the Center. They were worried enough about what she was doing with her new team. If they knew she’d been assaulted . . .

Violet couldn’t let herself think what that might mean. Still, she should call someone, she supposed; she definitely didn’t think she could drive herself home. Maybe Jay would come get her.

Of course he would,
she silently corrected herself. He was Jay; he was always there for her.

She glanced around, her eyes darting back and forth nervously.

“What’s wrong?” Sara asked, following Violet’s gaze.

“My purse. I must’ve dropped it when . . . when he grabbed me. Maybe it’s by my car.”

“It’s okay, we’ll look for it after the police get here. They’re on their way now.”

Violet nodded. Of course. The police would find it, probably in the same place she’d dropped her phone.

Sara knelt down beside Violet while they waited. “I’m so sorry about this.” She patted Violet’s knee, doing her best to comfort her. “No one should have to go through what you just did.”

“I’m just glad you heard me.”

Sara frowned, looking intensely at Violet. “What are you talking about?”

“The call button. I couldn’t get to my keycard so I pushed the call button. I was hoping you’d know I needed help when you heard the buzzer.” Wasn’t that why Sara had come looking for her? “Didn’t you hear it?”

Sara shook her head, slowly, hesitantly. “No. I didn’t.” And then she stood up, brushing off her knees as the sound of sirens approached. She looked down at Violet, who was confused now. “It was Rafe. He called me and said something was wrong. He said he was sure you were in trouble.”

For the second time in her life Rafe had saved her, something she was more than just grateful for.

She knew she didn’t need to go to the hospital by the time she’d finished answering questions and recounting her statement over and over again. She was scraped, especially on her hands, and bleeding from some small gashes on her hands and elbows. But once she’d cleaned them up, she realized they weren’t serious. A little peroxide and some Band-Aids and she’d be good as new, she was sure of it.

It was the shivering that was making her crazy, since she couldn’t seem to make it stop. It was the kind that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the fact that she’d just gotten the crap kicked out of her.

Violet sat in the passenger seat of Sara’s SUV, hugging herself and glancing nervously up and down the street, watching as police cars, both marked and unmarked, came and went. From down in the alley, there were constant flashes from a camera as crime-scene investigators recorded evidence. Sara finished up with one of the female officers who had taken Violet’s statement. They chatted in a way that made Violet suspect they knew each other outside of this situation, which she realized wasn’t that far off, since Sara seemed to know everyone in law enforcement.

Violet’s questioning hadn’t taken all that long, and she’d been surprised when someone told her she’d only been outside the Center less than five minutes. The attack felt as if it had lasted hours.

She kept the window down, and could hear snippets of Sara’s conversation with the officer she spoke to: “. . . he’d been following her,” Violet heard Sara explaining to the woman who took notes. “. . . he knew what school she went to . . .” Sara looked up, glancing past the officer’s shoulder, to where Violet was sitting. “. . . thought she’d seen what he’d done . . .” She continued, and Violet wondered if Sara knew she could hear them. “I wish someone would’ve told me the charges didn’t stick . . .”

Violet wanted to hear the rest, but that was when she saw the black Acura pull up. Jay’s car.

She climbed out of Sara’s car on shaky legs as Jay was stopped by one of the uniformed officers. She saw Jay reach for his ID and hand it to the cop. She waited where she was, still shivering, until Jay was allowed through.

Jay stood motionless when he reached her, and Violet moved first, stepping toward him, closing the gap between them, and laying her hand over the thin fabric of his worn Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She needed to feel him. He reacted then, gently cupping Violet’s chin as he inspected the damage to her face. His fingers traced her injuries, his frown deepening. “Are you okay?” His eyes traveling the length of her as his hands moved down her arms and then up again, settling gently on each side of her face, pinning her so he could inspect her more closely.

Mutely, Violet nodded, not caring that people, Sara and the police officers around them, had stopped what they were doing to watch the two of them. “And Sara shot him?”

She nodded again, her cheeks brushing his hands as they framed her face. His grip was so soft, so tender.

Violet could see the fear in his eyes. “I have to tell you, the idea of losing you scares the hell out of me, Vi. You know that, don’t you?” He sighed heavily, still holding on to her as he stared back at her. “Promise me, no more gang fights.”

Violet half-laughed and half-grimaced. “I swear it.” She reached up and gripped one of his hands, turning into his palm. He squeezed back, lacing his fingers through hers as he dropped his other hand and pulled her to him.

It was Sara’s voice that interrupted them, making Violet jump. “They found your cell phone . . .” She handed it to Violet. “And your keys.” Sara dangled the familiar surfboard keychain Jay had gotten her when he and his mom had gone to Hawaii. It said
Maui
on one side and
Victoria
on the other, the closest he could find to
Violet
. “It’s nice to see you again, Jay.” Violet had nearly forgotten that they’d met before, that night at the mountain cabin. “Are you driving her home?”

“Is that okay? Is she almost done here?”

“I think that’s a great idea. She shouldn’t drive herself.” Then she turned to Violet. “We’ll have someone bring your car to your house by tomorrow. And I’ll call your parents as soon as I can.” Sara tucked the keys in her pocket and then turned to Jay.

Violet gripped Jay’s hand; she wasn’t ready to explain this to her parents, but she knew she had no choice. They
were
parents, after all.

“What about my purse?”

Sara shook her head. “It wasn’t there. Are you sure you had it with you? Could you have left it somewhere else?”

Violet’s head whirled. It had to be there; she wasn’t wrong about this. There were only two places it could have been: in front of the Center, or in the alley.

“Don’t worry, they’ll keep looking,” Sara assured her, patting her arm.

There was a quiet moment as Sara thoughtfully surveyed the scene before them.

Violet glanced toward the woman who Sara had been talking to. “Why didn’t you tell her? Officer Durden? You know, about me. That I knew James Nua killed his family?”

Sara glanced reluctantly at Jay, but didn’t hesitate. “Not everyone needs to know what you kids are capable of. Sometimes it’s better to keep what you can do . . .
quiet
. Even the DA never really knows where I get my information. We have an understanding, I tell him he needs to dig deeper, and he doesn’t question how I know.” She glanced down regretfully at Violet. “I really am sorry, Violet. It was dumb luck you even ran into Nua in the first place, and that you happened to be wearing your school sweatshirt at the time.” She shook her head. “I mean, really, what are the odds?” Her voice took on a pensive quality. “We should never have gone back there that next day. I should never have taken the chance he’d see you again. It’s my fault. I’m supposed to keep you kids safe, and I let you down. I’d do anything to protect you.”

“I know,” Violet said, and meant it. Sara emphasized safety in everything she did, every decision she made. There was no way she would have intentionally put Violet—or any of her team, for that matter—in danger.

They stayed there like that for a long, quiet moment.

Finally, Violet asked the question she was hesitant to broach. She was trembling as the words left her lips. “What about James Nua? What happens now?”

Sara gave a cursory nod. “Every agency in town is looking for him. I got a partial plate, but I imagine he and his buddies have already ditched the car somewhere. Either way, he’s going to have to go for help eventually—that wasn’t a flesh wound. And the second he walks into any emergency room, clinic, or doctor’s office, we’ll be notified and he’ll be arrested. I’d say he has three . . . maybe four hours tops.” She rested her hand on Violet’s shoulder.

But that wasn’t what Violet noticed, the gentle, reassuring gesture. It was something else altogether that made Violet freeze. Literally.

Sara’s fingers were frigid. Not cold, but arctic, like they’d been turned into solid ice. And her skin was equally hard and unyielding.

Violet turned toward Sara. Everything moving slower now, as if time too had frozen. Sara smiled at her, her face the same as it always was. Her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, everything formed as they should be. Even her eyes, that same brilliant blue as Rafe’s, remained the same.

Everything but her pallor, which was now far too white. There was a thin veneer of frost that coated every surface of her skin and dusted her perfectly tweezed brows and the thick fringe of her lashes, making them look brittle but beautiful.

“Is everything all right?” Sara asked, her breath coming out in a plume of steam that only Violet could see. Sara’s eyebrows furrowed and Violet knew she was staring, but she couldn’t stop herself.

It was the most striking imprint she’d ever witnessed.

“You’re wrong,” Violet breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “He’s already dead.” She blinked slowly. “James Nua. He just died.”

Sara thought about that. “You . . . you can
feel
it?”

Violet stared at the woman in front of her. “
See
it
, actually.”

Blinking, Sara glanced down at her hands, the only part of herself she could really look at. “And you’re sure?”

“Positive.”

HE CHECKED HIS REFLECTION AS HE PASSED THE
oversized gilded mirror in the lobby of the upscale boutique hotel.
Typical,
he thought.
This is exactly the type of place she would want to meet.
Someplace where she could remind him that she was better than him.

But he couldn’t help grinning at the image that stared back at him. He wondered if she’d be surprised. He was no longer the gawky child he once was. No longer bashful and afraid. No longer ordinary.

A woman draped in a designer dress and glittering jewels turned her head. She practically tripped in her expensive heels, so she could watch him as she walked by despite the fact that she was clutching her date’s—or possibly her husband’s—arm. He was aware of the image he presented to the world. He was tall and handsome and charming.

But, of course, he could appear serious and shy too, when the need arose.

He’d become something of a chameleon. It was how he found so many of his girlfriends.

Right now, however, in this instance, the look he was going for was refined, and he smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket one last time before entering the main dining room.

He spotted her immediately; very little had changed in the past years. His stomach roiled nervously, despite his constant internal reiterations:
I am good enough. She can’t hurt me unless I let her. Words are only words.

He hated that she still held this much power over him, and as he approached he felt his steps grow clumsier and his shoulders hunching. He concentrated, not wanting to trip in front of her, and as he reached the table he straightened to his full, impressive height.

“Mother,” he said, his voice not sounding nearly as pathetic as he felt.

She glanced up, as if she’d only just realized it was him, even though he’d felt her ruthless gaze on him the entire time. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

His jaw clenched, but he took a seat without a word.

A pretty, brown-eyed waitress brought their menus. She was exactly the type of girl he’d normally notice. But not tonight. Tonight another woman demanded his attention.

The waitress smiled warmly as she took his drink order—nothing stronger than tonic water. He needed to keep a clear head. He couldn’t afford to give his mother any advantage. She took far too much pleasure in cutting him down.

“Forget it. You don’t have a chance,” his mother announced in an all-too-familiar tone, bringing back painful childhood memories.

She can’t hurt me unless I let her.
The mantra repeated in his head as he glanced up at her, pretending he had no idea she was referring to the waitress. She was wrong, though; he’d seen it in the girl’s eyes.

He took a breath. “You look . . . rested.” And she did. Four years abroad had been good to her. She’d shopped and spa’d her way across most of Europe. Her skin looked youthful and refreshed, and her eyes sparkled as maliciously as ever.

The years had been better for him, though, he silently congratulated himself. Four years away from her dictatorial rule. Four years rebuilding the boy she’d spent twenty years tearing down. Four years of deciding who he really wanted to be.

He grinned inwardly over his accomplishments—over all of the girls his mother thought he’d never be able to get.

The waitress came back with their drinks and he flashed his most devastating smile at her as he thanked her, his practiced voice the perfect blend of confidence and boyish charm. He felt a surge of smug satisfaction when she giggled nervously, and nearly spilled the white wine spritzer his mother had ordered.

“I brought you something,” he said once they were alone again, pulling a small package from his pocket. He’d wrapped it in tissue and tied it with ribbon himself, hating that, even after all these years, he still wanted to please her so badly.

When she just stared at it, her eyes filled with rancor as if it would be beneath her to open the handmade package with her own hands, he leaned forward. “Here,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice. “Let me.”

His fingers trembled as he untied the bow, and then tore through the insubstantial paper, revealing an antique filigree locket with a tiny luminous pearl at its center . . . a gift from one of his girls.

He thought it was perfect. He thought it would be beautiful on his mother, accenting her lovely throat.

He waited for her to say something, but there was silence. Virulent silence.

She glared at him as she reached for her drink, and he noticed her hands for the first time since meeting her here tonight.

Some things never changed,
he realized belatedly, as he gazed at her impeccably manicured, lilac-polished fingernails.