Dead Silence (28 page)

Violet felt as if Sara had just thrust her ice-cold hands around the base of her spine and squeezed. Icy pinpricks of horror seized her.

The girl didn’t look anything like she had in the pictures Violet had seen hanging on the refrigerator in her house. Even if she had been alive, Violet doubted anyone would have recognized her if they’d seen her. She was older than she had been in the pictures, but she was also emaciated and her hair was dyed. She was haggard and worn, and bore the grim expression of death.

Yet her body didn’t have the same gaping neck wound as the couple—or that her parents and younger brother had. Instead, in her left arm, dangling from the crook of her elbow, was a hypodermic needle, its plunger pushed all the way in.

“Drugs?” Violet asked, her throat entirely too dry, and she marveled that she’d managed to speak at all.

“We won’t know for sure until the tox screen comes back, but it looks that way.”

The chill slithered all the way down to her bones and she fought the urge to physically shiver as she turned to Sam. She wondered if that’s what he’d been planning to tell her, that he’d somehow known—from touching the school photograph she’d given him—that the girl was dead. That she’d been murdered too.

Judging from the expression on his face though, Sam was just as stunned by Sara’s announcement as she was. More so, maybe. He shook his head, and Violet glanced away quickly, not wanting anyone else to see their brief exchange.

But she caught Rafe watching her, and saw that she was too late. He didn’t bother trying to hide the interest that flickered just behind his usual veiled countenance. She reminded herself to breathe as she forced herself not to even blink in response. Instead she smiled, hoping it made her look innocent rather than tense—wound painfully tight—like she felt. If only her lips weren’t sticking to her teeth. If only Rafe would stop looking at her like he knew she was hiding something.

Violet pushed the picture away, not wanting to see it anymore. She got up and left the table, unsure her stomach could handle any more.

She retreated to the restroom, the one place where Rafe wouldn’t dare come after her, and she studied her image in the mirror as she washed her hands. When the door opened behind her, she watched Krystal from the reflection, marveling that the harsh overhead lights didn’t wash her out the way they had Violet. Krystal still looked vibrant and flamboyant, her hair sticking up from the coil at the back of her head in magenta and black spikes, making her look like some sort of goth peacock. Violet didn’t want to look at herself again. She’d already seen how she looked . . . sickly and pale. Too much like the corpses she’d seen during her lifetime.

“Hey,” Krystal said, approaching hesitantly, making an effort to sound light. “That sorta sucked, didn’t it? Are you okay?”

Violet shrugged, rubbing her hands a little too vigorously. “Yeah, it sorta did,” she agreed. And then, because it was Krystal, and because Krystal would open up to her if the roles were reversed, she said, “I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I think maybe because I was sure we’d find the girl, and it would suck for her because she’d lost her family, but at least she’d be safe.” She shrugged, wishing she had a better explanation. “Do you think . . . could you try to talk to her? To see if she can tell us who did this to her?”

Krystal snickered, and then straightened up, trying to look repentant for laughing at Violet’s suggestion. “Sorry. I know you’re serious. But, really, Vi, you know it doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried to tell you I have no control over who comes to me. They just”—she raised her hands, which were closed, to her reflection and then opened them both at once, spreading her fingers wide and making it look like her ability to talk to ghosts was a magic trick—“
appear
. I wish it were that simple. I’d ask her in a heartbeat, you know I would.”

“I guess I just wanted her to have a happy ending.” Violet’s voice was filled with remorse.

Krystal turned around and leaned against the counter, facing Violet. “I know you did. We all did,” she said, commiserating as she chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, getting neon lipstick all over her teeth. “Sometimes I think it’d be better if we didn’t have to see the things we see, or know the things we know. Then again, if we didn’t . . .” Her dark eyes were wide and honest and open. “If I couldn’t do the things I do, we might not have known where to find you when you were missing.
You
had a happy ending.”

Violet’s heart stuttered. Krystal was right. There were other reasons she was here, putting her abilities to use. Reasons that had nothing at all to do with Dr. Lee.

Still, it didn’t seem fair that she was okay while that other girl—Veronica—had ended up dead.

But life isn’t always fair
, her mom used to say.

And it certainly isn’t always easy
, Violet thought as she tried to wipe the images of the crime scene from her mind.

She ripped a piece of coarse brown paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands.

Maybe Sam had discovered something that might help even the odds, that might make things a little fairer. Maybe he could help Violet figure out how to give the girl’s death some meaning.

Suddenly, she had to find out what he knew.

It was getting cooler in the evenings now, and the late-summer-almost-autumn air clung to Violet’s skin—not entirely uncomfortable, but not exactly balmy once the sun started to set.

Krystal and Gemma had already gone home, and Violet was beginning to wonder if everyone else had too.

She hadn’t missed much after she’d excused herself from the meeting. Sara had managed to get some belongings from the family at the lake house—family photos, birth certificates, pieces of jewelry, a cell phone. But none of her teammates had picked up on anything right away. It was like that sometimes, just as Krystal had told her when they were in the restroom, they had no control over when and what came to them.

It was, Violet supposed, a little like magic after all.

She’d been waiting in front of the Center for nearly half an hour, and was starting to think that maybe Sam had ditched her. That maybe he’d snuck out that mysterious back entrance she’d heard Sara mention . . . the one that no one had ever actually bothered showing her.

She thought about walking around to the back of the building, about creeping down the alleyway to see if she could find it, but something stopped her.

Memories.
Memories of the day she’d been attacked by James Nua in that very alley. Memories of his fatal shooting.

Violet’s phone rang and she checked it. It was Chelsea . . . again. The third time she’d called since Violet had been out here. She couldn’t help thinking she’d made a mistake confiding in her friend because now, suddenly, Chelsea was sort of . . .
preoccupied
with Violet and her body-finding ability.

It was weird, like Violet was a bug, and Chelsea was examining her through a magnifying glass. But she was worried that Chelsea might inadvertently burn her if she held that lens on her for too long.

She hit Ignore and shoved her phone in her purse, then whirled on her heel, deciding to wait in her car instead. As she turned back, she gasped when she ran into someone who was standing right behind her.

“Holy . . . geez, Sam, you scared me half to death!” Violet wheezed, clutching her chest and trying to catch her breath. “I thought maybe you’d ducked out the back.”

“Sorry, Violet.” But he didn’t look overly sorry. Instead, he was grinning in that too-eager way that made Violet forget he’d nearly given her a heart attack. “I didn’t realize you even knew about the back entrance.”

“I don’t. Not really.” She frowned, wondering when she’d stop being the
new girl
and start learning all the “cool secrets,” as Sam called them. “So what do you have for me? Did you figure something out?” she asked, impatient now that he was standing here. Despite the sudden rush of adrenaline, she rubbed her hands over her arms.

Sam reached into his back pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. He held it out to her.

She glanced at it, and then back to him. “
Okaaay
. . . you have a flyer,” she drawled. She peeked again. “For what? A band?”

Sam nodded. “Yep.” He reached out and tapped the paper. “See that? They’re playing tomorrow night.” Violet looked at the date. “I want you to meet me there,” he told her.

Violet scanned the rest of the flyer. The band was called Safe Word, and from all the skulls and eyeballs, and the font that looked like it had been carved with the blade of a knife, she guessed they played some sort of heavy metal or grunge, or maybe some form of alternative. The overall feel of the flyer was dark and lurid and menacing.
“Why?”

Sam shifted on his feet. “I don’t know, exactly. I just know that when I touched that picture you gave me . . . of the girl . . .” He pulled out the picture, too, and passed it back to Violet. “I see this band. I think they might have meant something to her. I think if we go there, we might . . .” He reached up and tugged at his collar. “I don’t know, maybe figure something out.”

Violet considered that. She thought about the kind of place they might be walking into, and the kind of people who might be there watching a band called Safe Word, and she weighed that with the fact that they might actually find a clue there, something to help them figure out who’s been doing this. Who killed the girl . . . and her family.

She looked at the address and frowned. “Do you know where this place is?”

Sam nodded, looking more eager, more confident now. “It’s an all-ages club, near the Space Needle. And the show starts at eight, so don’t be late.” Before Violet could say anything, he said, “Did ya hear that? It rhymed.”

She reached out and shoved Sam in the shoulder. “I think the fact you just pointed that out tells me you’re not ready for a club like this—all ages or not.”

Sam smirked at her. “You’re just jealous ’cause you didn’t think of it first.” And then he sauntered away from her, heading toward the corner as he checked his phone for the time. Violet saw a station wagon turning down the street, an older one with fake wood paneling strips on the side of it. “Gotta go,” he said. “My ride’s here.”

Violet lifted her hand to her eyes as she watched the car come closer, a woman with a full head of white hair sitting behind the wheel. “Is that your mom?” Violet asked casually.

Sam grinned back at her. “Nah. My folks work late, so my gram gives me a lift when I can’t get a bus.”

“Your gram?”
Violet teased.

“What? It beats walking.” He turned to go, but Violet stopped him one more time.

“What’s your gram’s name?” she asked, trying to sound only mildly interested even as her heart began to beat a little too hard. Behind him, the station wagon was waiting.

“Her name . . . ?” He looked puzzled, and then shook his head, as if mentally shrugging it off. “Thelma,” he said. “Why? You wanna meet her?”

Violet made a face, scoffing at the idea. “That’s okay. I gotta go too.” She waited while Sam climbed inside, and then she waved politely. Really, she was trying to get a better look at the woman behind the wheel. Trying to decide if she’d been mistaken.

She stood there as the car disappeared in the opposite direction, and waited for her pulse to return to normal again before she looked down at the flyer once more. She wasn’t as confident as Sam had been, not about the place or the band or about finding a clue there. She concentrated on the large skull in the center of the creased paper, the one with a knife protruding from its eye socket.

She hoped Sam was right. She shook her head as she started to fold up the flyer to put it away.

But then something stopped her. Something in the bottom corner caught her attention. Something small and buried in the layout, obscured by the busy font and the floating, disembodied eyeballs that seemed to be watching Violet from the page.

At first she thought it was her mind playing tricks on her. And if she hadn’t known what she was looking at, she most certainly would have missed it. But then she leaned closer, holding it up to the light and squinting.

It wasn’t a trick, though. It was definitely there.

A small brimstone cross, just above the address to the club.

Exactly like the one from the crime scenes.

A HOUSE DIVIDED

IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WAY. TOGETHER, they should be strong, united, cohesive. Instead, they were splintered. Fractured.

Just like his other family had been.

Before . . .

He wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong.

No, not him, Colton. It was all Colton’s fault. And now, because of what Colton had done to the girl, they were all at risk. They were in danger of losing their family.

He’d have to figure a way to fix it. To make Kisha stop crying and to make Boxer stop glaring at Colton like he wanted to rip his throat out with his bare hands. He had to find a way to keep Bailey comfortable, and to make them all remember why they’d come together in the first place: Because they needed one another. Because they had no one else.