The Last Echo (4 page)

She knew he’d understand what she was telling him: that the echo of the dead girl was weighing on her still.

After a hesitant pause, Jay set the wax-coated cup on the sidewalk next to him. He leaned down and pressed the barest whisper of a kiss against the top of Violet’s dark curls. Despite the icy sensation of his lips, heat unfurled in Violet’s belly, licking through her. “I hate this, you know.” Absently, he reached for her hand, lifting it and flipping it over as he studied her palm. His thumb ran along the grooves there, and then his eyes moved up to meet hers. “I hate that you have to do all this without me. Maybe it would be better if you spent less time there . . .
with them
.”

Violet wished he’d just say it, what he really meant. “He’s not that bad, Jay. He’s just trying to help.” She knew that neither of them was talking about Dr. Lee now. This was about Rafe.

She looked at him, taking in a face that was almost more familiar to her than her own. His golden features, his warm eyes, his slightly too-long hair with the faintest curls dropping past the tops of his ears and brushing his neck. He looked so hurt, so vulnerable, and she blamed herself.

He touched her cheek, his hand as cool as his lips had been. “I just worry that he’s careless. I don’t know if I trust him, Vi.”

“He saved me once. What more do you want?”

“I want to know that he’d protect you the way I would if something happens. That he has your best interests in mind.” And then he sighed, a ragged, defeated sound. He ran his hand through his already rumpled hair. “That’s a lie. I want my girlfriend to stop spending so much time with another guy. I wanna know that you two don’t share some sort of bond because of what you can do. But what I really want is to know that he doesn’t have feelings for you.”

Violet was speechless. She had no idea how—or what—to say to any of that. She could defend her relationship with Rafe by saying that they only worked together, but it wouldn’t matter. Partly because she’d be lying. Of course they shared a bond, one Jay would never truly understand. And she certainly wasn’t going to quit the team because of that.

But it was that last part, the thing about Rafe having feelings for her, that really made her pause. Rafe didn’t
like
her, not in the way Jay meant.

Fortunately for Violet, she didn’t have to speak because Jay wasn’t finished yet. “But, honestly, you know what bothers me more than anything?” She shook her head, and he continued, his voice so low it sounded like a whisper rumbling up from his heart. “It’s that I can’t do anything for you when you’re in this kind of pain, Vi.”

Eyes wide now, Violet released the shaky breath she’d been holding.

Jay leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers while he scooped up both of her hands and squeezed them tight. As their breath mingled Violet wondered when she’d set her own cup down. They remained there like that—like marble sculptures—frozen nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth.

Then she felt his lips move against hers, and she closed her eyes when he whispered, “I wish I could make things better. I wish I could stop you from hurting.”

Speechless, Violet tipped her head back, just enough so that their lips were no longer just brushing, so she could
make
him kiss her. She needed to taste him, to draw strength from him as she pressed herself nearer to him, straining to be closer still. She freed one hand from his and cupped the back of his neck, her fingers digging into his hair, telling him—without words—not to pull away.

He kissed her back, in response to her restless request, giving her only what she needed. He stayed cool and restrained, never pushing her for anything more than what she asked for.

Violet’s toes curled inside her shoes and she wished that they were somewhere, anywhere, besides sitting on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the auto parts store. Finally, when she peeled her cherry-flavored lips from his, they still burned from his touch. “You do make things better,” she exhaled, her voice sounding faraway even to herself. “You make me feel . . .
normal
.”

Jay laughed, hauling Violet against his chest. She felt safe with his hands spanning her back. “And that’s good?” he laughed. “Most people want to be anything but normal.”

Listening to the rhythm of his heart, she smiled, feeling the deep fog lift from around her, over her, as she concentrated—focused—just like Dr. Lee had taught her. “Trust me, normal’s good. Very, very good.”

She felt suddenly shy about what she was about to ask but she let the words tumble from her lips anyway. “Can we go back to your house for a while?”

Jay squeezed tighter, his arms still wrapped around her with the unspoken promise of never letting her go. “For as long as you want, Violet.”

IT HAD BEEN HARD TO WAIT ALL DAY. HE’D BEEN
impatient, anxious. Excited.

He loved that butterfly feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, the fluttering sensation that came with the birth of each new relationship. He felt giddy just thinking about her, dizzy with the anticipation of every new first they would soon share as a couple.

The first time their eyes would meet, and hold—ripe with understanding. The moment their skin would graze—accidentally at first, and then once more, with purpose. Their first kiss—tentative and slow, and then again more passionately.

All of those firsts they had to look forward to . . .

He watched as she opened the back door to the café, the one leading to the alley where her car was parked, just as she did at the end of each shift. Though it was barely dark yet, her gaze flitted in every direction, watchful. Wary.

She wasn’t stupid; he would never have chosen a stupid girlfriend. As she released the café door behind her, he saw that she gripped her keys in her fist, a defensive maneuver that he easily recognized.

Definitely not a dumb girl,
he thought, smiling to himself.

She darted quickly, her footsteps purposeful, determined. It was less than fifteen paces to her car—he knew because he’d already counted them—and he watched as she reached it easily while he stayed low, tucked away in the shadows and out of sight.

He waited until she was safely inside, keeping his breathing low and in check, until he heard the click of her locks. Until he knew she felt safe.

Now all he had to do was wait for his part.

Listening, he heard her engine struggling to catch. Trying and trying again, she turned her ignition. Without even peeking, he could picture her pleading with her car to start.

But it wouldn’t start. Not tonight.

After a few minutes, he stepped out from the shadows, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He knew how he looked from her vantage point: He was just an ordinary guy—a student, probably—parked in the same lot she was.

He had to be careful, to time his actions perfectly:

First, he ignored her, pretended he didn’t realize her predicament as he unlocked his own car.

Second, he started his engine. No problem there.
His
ignition switch was fine.

And then, just as he was about to go, to leave the girl stranded, he had a change of heart.
Lucky for her.

When he reached the last step, the crucial one that would bring his plan home, he turned his car off and got back out. Lifting a hand, he waved uncertainly as he made his way timidly across the lot. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like you might need a hand.” He stayed back, though. Far enough so she’d feel comfortable, so she felt like
she
was the one in control.

At first she hesitated. But then, even though she didn’t actually voice it, the sudden shift in her expression said it all . . . the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, a hesitant smile.
She recognized him.

It was a positive first step in their budding relationship.

She rolled down her window, watching him with her big, trusting brown eyes. Another first. “It won’t start,” she explained. She leaned forward now, feeling more comfortable.

He thought about it for several seconds, not wanting to appear too eager, too desperate, and then finally, he said, “I’d offer to take a look, but . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know a thing about cars. The best I can do is call you a tow truck.” He pulled out his cell phone.

She wrinkled her nose. “I have my phone. You don’t have to . . .”

He glanced around at the alley, wearing a practiced expression of concern. “At least let me wait with you.”

She looked too, her brow creasing as her hand shot up to her neck, nervously fingering the necklace she wore . . . a vintage locket with a small pearl inset at its center. He knew the look on her face: She was worried about what—or who—might be out there. In the shadows. “Are you sure?” she asked at last. “I don’t want to put you out.”

He just smiled at her, telling her in their new implicit way that it was fine. “How about you buy me a coffee next time I come in?”

Her lids lowered and he could practically hear her thoughts:
He remembers me too
. “Yes . . . next time. Of course.”

Satisfaction coursed through him: Next time would have been their second date.

Except that the moment she unlocked the passenger side door to let him in, the date had become unnecessary. She’d just agreed to take their relationship to a whole new level. She’d just agreed to become his.

He reached across then, surprising her as he threw himself on top of her. He cupped his hand over her face as he held her down, covering her mouth and nose with the plain white cloth he’d been clutching in his fist.

She struggled—they always struggled—but in that moment, their eyes met, and held.

He wondered whose heart beat faster, harder, as he leaned closer.
“Shhh,”
he crooned, pressing the cloth firmer against her face. Her eyes widened in response, and he knew that she’d understood his unspoken reassurance, he knew that already they were developing a wordless rapport.

He held her like that, embracing her until she stopped struggling, until she relaxed, succumbing to his adoration, his devotion. Until she accepted that she belonged to him.

Then he gently unbuckled her and carried her to his car. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear for her, just as he knew she’d have done. And when he leaned in close, his lips hovering right above her cheek, his heart fluttered and his stomach tightened. It was another first: the kiss.

He pressed his lips to her cheek, savoring the sensation of her soft skin beneath his mouth. It was warm, soft, supple.

He could hardly wait until she kissed him back.

SOMETIMES VIOLET FELT LIKE A FRAUD, LIVING A
double life the way she did. One part of her life was so normal, her days filled with school and homework, family and friends. The other half was riddled with secrecy and death. This had definitely been one of those days, as she’d been forced to sit through World History listening to Ms. Ritke’s lecture about Charlotte of Belgium’s tragic life, wondering how much hair spray it took to keep the teacher’s tall bouffant from losing its shape. Ms. Ritke was a student favorite and taught history as if she were giving a recap of her favorite soap opera, not focusing on dates and locations, but including all of the scandalous details like affairs, conspiracies, and incest.

But even Ms. Ritke hadn’t been enough to hold Violet’s interest after she’d gotten the text from Sara:

Need you at the Center. Can you come after school?

She didn’t tell Sara that she’d come whenever she asked. How could she not? If it hadn’t been for Sara and Rafe, Violet probably would’ve been killed that night at the cabin, when Mike and Megan’s dad had discovered she’d known the truth about how his wife had died. She owed her life to them.

But it was more than just the fact that Sara and Rafe had saved her life that made Violet want to be there, she admitted. There was something about that place—and the team—that made her feel
normal
. Not like such a freak.

Her friends Mike and Megan had moved away after that night at the cabin when their father had confessed to killing their mother and then turned the gun on himself.

But they weren’t the only ones whose lives had been changed by the events of that night. Violet’s life had changed too.

She had found a home that night. A safe place where she could put her gift to good use. With Sara’s team of misfits.

Violet parked her Honda next to Krystal’s oversized, gas- guzzling Chevy. It didn’t matter that Roxy was about thirty years out of style, or that she took up nearly two parking spaces on her own; the car totally suited Krystal’s eclectic style.

She navigated the nondescript hallway that led to the state-of-the-art facility the team referred to as “the Center.” If you didn’t know better, the building was just another warehouse in the middle of the industrial section of Seattle. But Violet knew better. Holding up her keycard, she waited until the light on the panel outside the inner entrance turned from red to green, signaling that her access had been granted, and she slipped quietly inside.

Everyone was already there, gathered in the oversized space where a cluster of chairs and couches had been pulled together for their meeting. Violet took the opportunity to look around at their group. They were an odd collection, with very few outward similarities.

Gemma was a throwback to old Hollywood glam, and Violet envied the other girl’s heart-shaped face, golden blonde hair, and bowed lips that were perpetually painted a vibrant poppy red. She wondered how it was possible that Gemma was only sixteen. But the effect of her doelike brown eyes was lost once you recognized the hardened air she wore like armor. She seemed jaded. Cynical. Caustic.

Or maybe it was only Violet who got that vibe from her.

Her gaze moved to Sam Abolins, the youngest member of the team. He claimed to be
almost
sixteen, but Violet had a hard time believing he was a day over fourteen. Granted, he was tall, but he was too gangly by half . . . still waiting for puberty to fill out his lanky body. In the two months she’d been with her new team, Violet had only met Sam a handful of times, most of those during the first investigation she’d been involved in, an arson case. It had been awkward for Violet since she was brand-new, and her ability hadn’t been useful. But unlike Gemma, Sam had made it easy for her, making an effort at small talk and trying to make Violet feel welcome. Violet had watched him then, as he’d touched the charred remains from the fire when they were brought into the Center, his face twisted in concentration.

Now Violet saw Krystal standing in the space they called the break room. She was just closing the door of the industrial-sized refrigerator when she noticed Violet at the entrance and her mouth split into a wide grin. “What took you so long? We were waiting for you,” she whisper-yelled as she popped open a bottle of sparkling water. Violet wondered if she actually thought no one else could hear her, even when everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at her.

“You know, school,” Violet answered, doing her best to ignore the look of disgust Gemma shot her from her place on the couch. She made her way as inconspicuously as she could to where the rest of the team was gathered, hoping not to draw any more unwanted attention.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t live so far away, you’d be here on time like the rest of us,” Rafe said, his voice quiet and mocking as Violet took the open spot next to him. “Nice entrance, by the way. Way to be low-key.”

Violet made a face at him as Sara gave her a brief nod and flipped through a manila file. “Now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.” Violet cringed at the reminder that they’d all been forced to wait for her. “Here’s what we know so far. . . .” Sara’s voice began in its usual controlled and clipped way—what Violet considered her work voice. “The police have confirmed that the girl Violet found was Antonia Cornett. She’d been missing for almost two weeks.” Sara pulled a photo from her file and handed it to Sam, who was sitting in the seat closest to her. “Her friends called her Toni.”

Sam studied the picture for a moment before passing it to Gemma.

“I’ve also been told that she’s not this guy’s first victim. In fact, the police are dubbing him ‘the collector.’ Apparently, this is the third body they’ve found in this condition.”

Violet wondered if she’d missed something, and she raised her hand uncertainly.

Her lips turning up slightly, Sara shook her head. “Violet, this isn’t school. If you have a question, just ask.”

Violet dropped her hand, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry. What did you mean by
in this condition
? What condition was she in?”

Sara nodded as she explained to the group. “Apparently his MO is to try to preserve the bodies. The first two times he used large coolers, but this time . . .” She looked at Violet again. “Well, you saw, he put her in a freezer instead. Since there was no power and it was still cold, it was obvious it hadn’t been there long. The girls are killed by suffocation; there are signs of strangulation. But each of them is treated with the same care: hair washed and styled, nails freshly painted, makeup applied, and clothes immaculately cleaned and pressed. Like they’ve just gotten ready for a date.”

Violet felt sick. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly spending far too much time with the bodies
after
they’d died.

She couldn’t help wondering what else he’d done with them.

Shuddering at the thought, she curled her feet beneath her and glanced up at the skylights in the ceiling. The sun was moving down the sky, tracing a fiery path toward the waterfront. Already Violet could feel the effects of a restless night catching up with her, and she stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. She blushed again when she caught Rafe watching her. It seemed like he was always watching to see how she was handling all this.

Violet widened her eyes at him, letting him know she was fine. She turned away, forcing herself to focus on Sara’s words.

Krystal interrupted then, disruptive and unrepentant as usual. She dropped onto the couch, squeezing into the narrow space between Violet and Rafe without even trying to be quiet, oblivious that she was disturbing anyone. Sara didn’t acknowledge the disturbance; she just kept talking like nothing had happened.

“Wow. What a sicko, right?” Krystal tried to whisper. She toyed with one of the clear healing crystals that dangled from a chain around her neck, as if she were rubbing for answers.

Violet kept her voice considerably lower than Krystal’s. “Totally.”

Sara shot a pointed look at Krystal, and Krystal rubbed her stone even harder. It was on the tip of Violet’s tongue to ask if Krystal was her
real
name, or just a nickname because of her belief in the powers of the stones she wore.

She opened her mouth to ask, but Sara drew her interest.

“We have some of Antonia’s things—some of her personal effects—if any of you would be willing to stay behind for a bit and check them out for me. Tell me if you sense anything?”

Violet sat up a little straighter, eager for the chance to watch the rest of them in action. Everyone on the team—at least everyone but her—was in some way psychic. They all had certain “sensitivities” to things that weren’t
exactly
tangible.

She supposed she did too; her gift just didn’t work the same way theirs did. Hers wasn’t useful at a moment like this. But that didn’t stop her from being fascinated by the others.

“Any chance we can go to her place? Check it out in person?” Rafe asked.

Sara cocked her head, her brows raised. “You think that wasn’t my first question?” she asked, addressing Rafe directly. “Sorry. Her home is off-limits. Once the police give us the go-ahead, I’ll see if we can schedule a little field trip. But until then, we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

Violet’s part of the investigation had pretty much finished the moment she’d discovered the girl’s body in the warehouse. Or at least it was finished until they had a suspect in mind. That was when she could try to match the echoes from the dead girls they’d already discovered to the imprints on whoever might be responsible for killing them. For now, all she could do was stand back and watch while the others did their thing.

She hovered near the edge of the large conference table where Sara placed a cardboard box and opened the flaps. Already several of her teammates were reaching inside, pulling out the girl’s belongings. Violet felt like she was eavesdropping on something that they probably didn’t share with many outsiders.

This was how it worked for some of them—maybe all of them to some degree, Violet thought as she stood back, watching as items were passed from one set of hands to the next.

Psychometry.
It was what she’d seen Sam doing when she’d first met him. Violet had learned the term soon after she’d joined the team, and she’d Googled everything she could about it. From what she’d gathered, it was the ability to “read” the history of an item—or the person who owned the item—simply by touching it. Of course there was nothing “simple” about it. And like her gift, there didn’t seem to be a lot of hard and fast rules to it. Each of them seemed to have their own way of doing things. It certainly wasn’t a science.

But it had a name, and Violet felt a flash of envy that they, at least, knew what to call their ability. Hers continued to remain nameless. For all she knew, she was unique in her ability to seek out those who’d been murdered.

She eased closer, trying to get a better look at what was happening in front of her, until she unwittingly became part of the circle, handling objects that were passed around. She paid less attention to the personal effects and more attention to those who held them. Beside her, Krystal closed her eyes whenever she was given something, seeming to concentrate on the feel of each item in her hands, while Gemma scrutinized the pieces like a detective, as if she were searching for physical clues that might have been left behind on the objects themselves. Rafe, on the other hand, barely paid attention to any of them—the objects or the others. He was passed an item, glanced haphazardly at it, and then passed it along, almost as if he were playing a bizarre game of hot potato.

From outside the circle, Sara supervised, taking in all their reactions.

Sam caught Violet watching him and he winked at her, catching her off-guard with the gesture. And then he glanced away again, his face almost childlike, right down to the spray of freckles across his nose, as he ran his fingers over an ordinary hairbrush.

Violet watched him as he closed his eyes, concentrating once more. She wondered what he sensed that she didn’t.

She reached inside the box for a small photo album with a brushed black velvet cover. She drew it out, untying the satin ribbon that held it closed as she flipped to the first page. Inside, she got her first real glimpse into the girl’s life—before it had been stolen away from her.

Antonia Cornett looked barely older than Violet. She was just twenty-one, an art history major at the university. The last time any of her friends had seen her alive was just two weeks earlier, when she was leaving the off-campus rental house she shared with her best friend to go to class.

Violet studied Antonia’s big brown eyes and her thick curtain of dark hair, and wondered if she looked like the other girls who’d been discovered before her. The ones they suspected had been murdered by the same person.

As she looked at the smiling images in the photo album, it was hard not to notice how pretty the girl was. There was a quiet sort of laughter in her eyes, buried behind her shy smiles. But what really struck Violet was that this was a girl who’d had friends, a family . . . a life.

Her heart ached. People missed her, this girl. And whoever the killer was, he’d taken her away from them. Violet wished she could do more to help her team find him, to stop him from doing this to anyone else’s daughter . . . sister . . . friend.

She closed the book and glanced up to find Rafe watching her just as she felt a tear slip down her cheek. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying.

She watched as he tucked something into his pocket, something small and silver. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand and pretended not to notice the concern on his face as she turned away again, setting the album aside. This was hard, she realized, peering into the private life of a dead girl. It was one thing to find her body, to know where she’d been discarded by her killer. It was another thing altogether to know
her
.