The Last Echo (19 page)

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 injured 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 could 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.

She turned to see Gemma gaping at them in openmouthed disgust, as if she were eyeballing a horrific car wreck. “I can come back later if you two lovebirds need some time alone.”

Violet blinked as she remembered what Gemma had said about her, about her stinking of death, and she wondered if Gemma smelled it now. Or if there was something else she sensed on her. Something infinitely more private.

Rafe managed to collect himself before Violet did, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doing here, Gemma?” He left the kitchen and went to stand next to Violet.

“Um, believe it or not, Rafe, I still live here. And last I heard, you haven’t had any luck getting me evicted, so deal with it.”

Rafe grabbed Violet’s hand, ignoring the static charge that jolted their skin the moment they touched. “Come on, I’ll show you my room,” he mumbled as he dragged Violet away from Gemma.

Gemma said something behind them, but he just slammed his door, blocking out her words. The bitter tone, however, was unmistakable.

“What is it with her?” Violet asked, peeling her hand from Rafe’s.

But before she could say anything else, she’d looked past him, and she covered her mouth in surprise. And instead of feeling uncomfortable about being alone with him in his bedroom, she suddenly felt laughter bubbling up in her throat. The last thing she’d expected was this kind of neat-freak orderliness. Not from Rafe, with his unkempt hair, ripped jeans, and threadbare T-shirts. It was almost stark it was so tidy.

But it was his bookshelves that really captured Violet’s interest. They were tall, every shelf overflowing, with books stacked in front of books. There were knickknacks too, all perfectly arranged, an old metal lunch box, mismatched picture frames . . . a troll doll with bright pink hair.

Violet wondered if that was the doll Sara had told her about. Sophie’s doll.

“She’s always like that,” Rafe answered, but Violet was ignoring him now as she wandered toward the shelves. She ran fingers along the spines as she read the titles in her head:
On the Road
,
The Catcher in the Rye
,
1984
,
The Giver
,
Fahrenheit 451
. There were classics sitting alongside books by Stephen King, Michael Crichton, and Anne Rule. There was no rhyme or reason to his hodgepodge reading collection. “She’s mad because I’m not the brother she always dreamed of.”

“You think she’s bitchy to me because
you’re
not nice to her?” Violet stopped, her finger poised over a tattered copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know, kind of.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Violet’s lips quirked, her eyes widening. “Maybe you should teach her to use her big-girl words, and then we’ll know for sure.”

His eyes dropped, but his mouth curved into a shy smile. “I just meant she’s kinda pissed that I haven’t been nicer to her since she moved in. It’s not that I don’t like her or anything . . .” His voice trailed off.

“It’s just that you don’t want to get to know her.” Violet finished his sentence.

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and shrugged again. “I guess so.”