The Last Echo (3 page)

HE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CORNER, KEEPING
his head low, his eyes down. He didn’t want to draw attention. Not today. Not yet. Not because he didn’t want to be seen, but because it didn’t matter. Even if they saw him, they wouldn’t be worried.

He took a bite of his sandwich, turkey on whole wheat, hold the mayo. Same thing he’d ordered every day for the past week. Same order, same restaurant, same table. He set the sandwich down again and lifted the newspaper, holding it in front of his face as he dared a quick glance at the girl behind the counter.

She smiled sheepishly at the man she was helping, her gaze darting away quickly when he smiled back at her, her hand nervously lifting to tuck a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear as she turned to get his change.

Even from where he sat, he recognized the gesture, the difficulty maintaining eye contact, the awkward glances and tight-lipped smiles. The girl was shy—painfully so.

That’s what made her perfect for him. That’s why he’d been coming here, day after day, working so hard to make her notice him, to make her comfortable with him. Hoping to coax a real smile from her. An effortless, carefree smile.

He understood her. He could help her. If she let him, he might even be able to fix her.

Still, he hated watching as her hands brushed over theirs, as they passed her money and credit cards and she handed them coffees and bags filled with pastries and sandwiches. He felt an instant surge of jealousy. It was familiar and deep and painful. That was the same, too, the resentment he felt when he watched her interact with the customers.

No, not all the customers—the men who came in to see her. He didn’t know why she encouraged them, why she let them come, time and again. Why she tried so hard to smile at them, when he knew . . . that what she really wanted was him.

The newsprint crumpled in his fists, and he dropped his gaze again, breathing deeply, reminding himself that this was her job. Reminding himself that she had to make a living.

He glanced up again, quickly, briefly, feeling relieved as he saw the man take his white paper bag and step away from the counter.

He had no business being jealous, he told himself. She didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or anything.

His girlfriend was gone. He’d broken up with her, and now he was alone again. Probably why he was feeling so lonely, so bitter.

He took another bite of his sandwich, setting the newspaper aside, but just for the moment.

He suddenly felt claustrophobic within the space of the café, like he needed to get outside. He felt anxious thinking about the girl behind the counter, thinking about his ex-girlfriend, and glancing at the front page of the paper out of the corner of his eye. He stared instead at his lap, trying to get his emotions back under control.

And that was when he saw it, the flash of pale purple beneath his right thumbnail. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, that he’d missed it when he was cleaning up.

Keeping his hands hidden beneath the table, he used the nail of his left index finger to dig at the polish, cursing himself for being so careless, so reckless. He hoped that no one else had noticed it. He ran through the list of people he’d come in contact with already that day.

He retraced his steps in his head, trying to remember who he’d spoken to, who might have had the opportunity to see his hands up close.

His eyes shot upward, widening—a little too much at first—and then he narrowed them, keeping them trained on her, the girl behind the counter. Had she seen it? Did she notice the sliver of nail polish he’d forgotten to scrub away?

It was then that she looked up at him, and for a moment time seemed to freeze as they stayed like that, staring at each other. His heart was racing as his mind worried over what she might have witnessed. And then her lips parted, her brown eyes fastened on his, sparkling as she smiled at him. Fully. Without inhibition.

It was the loveliest of smiles.

His mouth curved in response, daringly. Boldly. Telling her that he, too, was ready, even as his heart hammered recklessly.

She involuntarily licked her lips, reaching up to tuck that invisible strand again, before turning back to the next customer in line. He knew he was still smiling, but he couldn’t help himself. It was soon—too soon after his breakup—but there was no accounting for love, after all, was there?

When he was sure he’d scraped away every last trace of the shimmering purple lacquer, he carefully folded his newspaper and tucked it beneath his arm. He was done here for now. He would have to come back later, when the girl’s shift was over. Maybe he could even have a chat with her. Maybe they’d hit it off.

Maybe it was time for him to get a new girlfriend.

VIOLET GLANCED AT THE ASSORTMENT OF SCIENCE
journals and
National Geographic
s on the table in front of her. She always wondered why doctors and dentists didn’t fill their waiting rooms with more interesting reading material like fashion magazines or entertainment news. Even tabloids would be better than the assortment in front of her. It looked like school . . . on steroids. She reached for a copy of
Scientific American
with a cover article about dark matter, and she absently flipped through the pages, not really noticing them.

A faint headache pulsed at her temples and she knew what it was . . . it had been there all day, taunting her. Just enough discomfort to remind her that she wasn’t entirely in control of her ability. Which was why, of course, she was sitting here now, at the appointment Sara had scheduled for her for this afternoon. Violet knew Sara only had her best interests in mind. That she wanted Violet to be safe. And
safe
meant learning to curb her impulses . . . to stop the echoes from consuming her, especially in the days after finding a body.

Dr. Lee opened the door to his office and poked his head out. “Ready?”

Violet tried not to sound too morose as she muttered, “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” She dropped the magazine back on the coffee table as she got up to follow him.

Inside his office, she went to her usual spot, a chair across from the couch and adjacent to Dr. Lee’s. Funny how they’d already established a routine after only a few sessions. Funny, too, how Violet refused to sit on the worn leather couch, no matter how inviting it looked. Somehow the couch made it feel more . . .
shrink
like.

Dr. Lee gave Violet an easy smile as he crossed his legs, setting her file aside and giving her the impression he’d just been brushing up on her case. “How are you today, Violet?”

There was no point mincing words—wasn’t it kind of his job to know if she wasn’t being completely honest? “A little better today. The breathing exercises and CDs have helped, but I’m still feeling . . . uneasy.”

He settled back but his eyes never left her face. His bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows drew together. “And when did this
uneasiness
begin?”

Violet smiled. It felt like a dance they did. He, pretending he didn’t know about the body in the warehouse, that he wasn’t in contact with Sara at every turn. And she, pretending she didn’t know he knew.

“Yesterday,” she answered. “I found a body yesterday.”

“Murdered?”

There was no need to nod—he already knew the answer—but she did anyway.

“A girl. Stuffed in a freezer in an old warehouse. We found her last night. We were following up on an anonymous tip that she was in the area.”

Dr. Lee pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “Yes. I saw the story about her in the paper. Did you see it?”

Violet shook her head. Even if she read the paper, she would’ve avoided it today, not wanting to see anything about the girl. Sometimes rehashing things like that made it worse for her.

He considered her response the way he seemed to consider everything—patiently, thoughtfully—his foot bobbing up and down in an even rhythm. Violet concentrated on the toe of his shoe. White sneakers. Practical, but not very professional. She wondered if Dr. Lee dressed out of comfort or in a conscious effort to put his patients at ease. Maybe he thought a suit and tie would make him seem stuffy and unapproachable.

“Did anyone happen to mention how long until she’d be buried?” he asked, understanding that that would bring Violet peace—real peace—at last.

“Sara said that as soon as they could confirm the girl’s identity and perform the autopsy, then she could be released to her family. That way they can make funeral arrangements.”

“And then you’ll be . . . better?” He’d asked these questions before, and Violet suspected he’d be asking them each time this topic came up.

“Pretty much.” She shrugged.

He smiled. “But not all the way?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, drawing a deep breath. “It’ll just happen again, the next time a body . . .” She shifted, anxious about which word to use. She wondered if she’d ever get used to talking about it. “. . . you know,
calls
for me.”

His head bobbed now, matching the tempo of his foot. “And that bothers you?”

Violet wasn’t sure how to answer. It’s not like she’d never considered the question before: Did it bother her to find those who’d been killed? Would she rather not be drawn to unsettled bodies? That depended, she supposed. She liked helping, being useful, and the team had given her the ability to do some good with her strange talent. And she didn’t
mind
the dead, necessarily; they certainly deserved to be at peace.

But would she rather be like everyone else? Maybe.

Probably.

She picked at a hangnail on her index finger, making it worse when she tried to rip it free and leaving an angry red strip of raw skin in its place. “I don’t know,” was all she could come up with for a response.

Dr. Lee let it pass. “Okay. Well, how’s everything else going this week? Anything happening at home? Is there anything with your friends or your boyfriend that you want to talk about?”

This time the smile was genuine and Violet’s cheeks flushed as her eyes lifted to meet Dr. Lee’s gaze. “Everything’s good. Really good. Especially with Jay. He gets me, you know?”

“And you mentioned before that he knows about what you can do?” He’d picked up her file and was leafing through it now, looking at old notes he’d written. “You two have known each other since you were seven?”

She nodded. “He’s the only one of my friends I’ve ever told.”

Dr. Lee leaned forward, his pale eyes intense. “So you trust him with your secrets?”

There was a note in his voice, something that made Violet hesitate as she tried to place it. “Completely. Jay would never betray me.”

“What about other people’s secrets? Have you told him about the team? What the others can do?”

Violet stiffened now, wondering what Dr. Lee was insinuating. Did he think Violet was revealing top-secret information to Jay? She understood that she needed to be discreet; Sara had been more than clear that what they did at the Center was confidential.

“He knows I’m working with Sara, but he doesn’t know
what
I’m doing. Or what anyone else is doing either. I haven’t told him
anything
.” She hated feeling like her loyalty was being questioned. Dr. Lee was supposed to be helping her. He was supposed to be on
her
side, wasn’t he?

His face smoothed over once more, his expression becoming placid, unruffled. He was obviously satisfied by her answer and he leaned back, running his palm over his too-crisp, too-blue jeans as if there may have been a wrinkle that needed straightening. “What about the other team members? You’ve said before that you don’t think some of them care much for you. Do you still feel as if you’re having trouble fitting in?”

Violet was flustered by the change of topic, and she wondered if her confusion—and her misgivings about his questions—were simply other side effects from the dead girl she’d discovered the day before. Clarity wasn’t exactly her strong suit in the wake of finding a body.

Besides, she supposed it was Dr. Lee’s job to dig into her personal life, to pry. And she reminded herself that he
had
been making things easier for her.

An image of Gemma flashed through Violet’s mind. Gemma Kidder was the one team member who had gone out of her way to make Violet feel unwelcome in the two months since Violet had joined their group. Violet kept hoping that something would change between them, that maybe Gemma was one of those people who had a hard time warming up to new people, and that eventually her cool exterior would thaw and they’d find a way to get along. Or at least be civil to each other.

But so far, all she’d gotten from Gemma were icy stares and cold shoulders.

On the flip side, there were Sam and Krystal and Rafe.

Violet didn’t know Sam all that well yet—she’d only met him a few times—but what she knew of him, she liked. With Krystal, it was different. She’d felt that instant connection. In some ways, Krystal reminded Violet of her best friend, Chelsea. Well, in the sense that she was loud and sort of obnoxious. But that was pretty much where the similarities ended. Where Chelsea didn’t mind being thought of as overbearing—and probably tried to be, for the most part—Krystal was oblivious to it. She would probably feel terrible if she realized how disruptive she tended to be. Even when she was trying to be quiet, Violet realized early on that Krystal seemed to be almost incapable of whispering. Add that to her loud sense of style—her constantly changing hair colors and lipsticks, her brightly colored tights and biker boots, and multiple ear and eyebrow piercings—and Krystal stood out like a sore thumb. But she was also very calming. Her presence was reassuring, soothing. It was a strange combination.

Rafe, on the other hand, was not soothing. His intense blue eyes made her feel like he could look right through her, boring into her whenever he watched her. And even now, her fingers tingled as if they’d just brushed against him, despite the fact that he was nowhere near. . . . That phantom spark.

What was that all about anyway? That static she felt whenever their skin met? She didn’t understand it, yet she knew she wasn’t the only one aware of it. Rafe had to sense it too. She’d seen it in his reaction, watched him flinch in response. But neither of them ever mentioned it, like an unspoken secret.

“It’s better,” Violet lied. “I think I was just nervous at first.” She purposely avoided saying Gemma’s name. She didn’t want to talk about her; she’d had enough drama for one day, she thought, recalling the incident in PE with Jacqueline.

Gemma was another matter altogether, but Violet was sure she could handle the situation on her own. She certainly didn’t want to tattle to the team’s shrink about it.

“And Sara?”

He was definitely covering all the bases. “Sara’s fine,” Violet assured him. “She’s easy to work with, and I trust her. That’s important to me.”

He tipped his chin forward, a curt nod. “All right, then, back to this uneasiness you’re feeling. What about sleep, Violet? Can you sleep when you’re feeling this way?”

Normally she couldn’t, but with Dr. Lee’s help—using the CDs he’d made for her—she had. This was new.

Still, she had to admit she didn’t feel totally rested. “I did, but I’m still exhausted,” she finally admitted, sighing as she said it. “I dreamed about her . . . the girl.”

He studied Violet, and then stood and went to his desk. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he unlocked a drawer and reached inside. When he returned, he held his hand out to her, giving her a transparent brown prescription bottle. “These will help. Take one if you have trouble again tonight. It won’t do you any good to lose sleep.” Then he scribbled on a pad of notebook paper before tearing a sheet free. “Here’s a prescription for more if you need them. If your parents have questions, they can call me,” he explained, handing her another one of his business cards. He scrawled a phone number on the back. “And this is my mobile number, in case it’s after hours.” His eyes held hers. “You can use the number, too, Violet. For anything. At any time.”

Violet nodded as she slipped both the note and the bottle into her pocket.

Sleep would be good, she decided. Sleep might be just what she needed.

Violet stood outside, watching as the lights went out, row by row, inside the auto parts store where Jay worked. She probably should’ve felt guilty about showing up unannounced, but truthfully, she didn’t. The only thing she felt was that familiar thrum of anticipation in the pit of her stomach whenever she was about to see Jay. When the door finally opened and she heard the key slide into the lock, she smiled, stepping out of the shadows.

“Jesus, Vi, you scared the crap outta me!” Jay jolted, but even in the washed-out light coming from the store’s sign, Violet could see the easy smile that found his lips as he stuffed the bulky store keys in his pocket. “Although I have to admit I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

She made a face at him. “Whatever! You don’t know anything.” She lifted both hands in front of her, as if he hadn’t already seen the two cups she was holding, her version of a romantic gesture. They were Jay’s favorite, cherry Slurpees from the 7-Eleven. Violet always teased him about having such simple taste, but secretly, she loved them too. Drinking the red, slushy drinks reminded her of the long summer days they’d spent loitering on the hot blacktop parking lot in front of the run-down convenience store, waiting for something interesting to happen. But it was Buckley, after all, and the best thing that ever happened was a street race between two hotheaded teens trying to show off for a girl. Or maybe a shoplifting incident during which the police would be called. Every so often it was her uncle who would show up, and she and Jay would talk him into giving them a ride in his police cruiser to town where they would hang out in the park instead.

Jay grinned, reaching for one of the cups. Violet sat down on the curb, just like they used to do as kids, and lifted her straw to her lips.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, serious now, following her lead and dropping onto the curb beside her.

Violet leaned against him, just enough so their shoulders were touching, and she felt a different kind of spark, the kind forged from years of connection. This was where she belonged. This was where she should always be. With Jay.

“So how was your appointment? With the shrink?” He was frowning as he stared down at her, his lips already turning red from his drink. His face was creased with worry.

“It was good,” she said, taking a long pull from her own straw and swirling the sweet, syrupy ice around her tongue. “It—it helped to talk to him.” She didn’t tell Jay about the pills Dr. Lee had given her, the ones in her pocket, pressed against her thigh at this very moment. Pills felt like failure to her. Like admitting she couldn’t handle this on her own. That willpower wasn’t enough . . . even though, clearly, it wasn’t. “But, you know, I still don’t feel great. I was hoping that seeing you might make things . . .” A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she shrugged. “. . . better,” she finished.