Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel

Chapter 11


VIOLET STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AND appraised the indigo blue maxi dress that swished around her ankles, wishing she had something a little more funeral-y to wear. Eventually she’d decided that with her mom’s cardigan it at least looked church-ish, which would have to be good enough. Besides, she reminded herself, it wasn’t like she was actually planning to attend the funeral. She was simply planning to spy on it.

But she still didn’t want to be disrespectful, not this day of all days. Not to the family being put into the ground. This was their time to find peace, and Violet didn’t feel like a pair of jeans and a T-shirt were appropriate attire, even from a distance.

Jay had skipped school for two days, which had made it nearly three days since she’d seen him. She wanted to convince herself that she was numb about it, that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep the past three nights, but she’d be lying . . . again. And the new, more honest Violet was trying not to do that. Least of all, to herself.

But today was Friday, the day of the funeral, and now she was the one playing hooky. She grabbed the directions off the printer and stuffed them into her purse before slipping on some flats and rushing out the door. She didn’t want to be late.

The sight of a car parked in her driveway brought her up short, nearly causing her to trip down her own front steps.

She tried to think fast, to come up with an excuse for the way she was dressed since she’d texted her friends to tell them she was staying home sick today, but it was too late. Chelsea was already slamming her driver’s-side door behind her, a look of single-mindedness on her face. Jules was right behind her, and Claire, not to be outdone, but also not willing to get out of the car, unrolled her window from the backseat.

“Where the heck are you going in that getup?” Chelsea asked.

“Um, I . . .” Violet faltered, coming up blank. She tried to turn the conversation around as she glanced at Claire, who’d pulled out a compact and was dabbing at her lip gloss. “Shouldn’t you guys be at school?”

“Yeah,” Chelsea stated. “But it’s lunchtime, and since Jay wasn’t at school again, and you’ve been all Mopey McMoperson lately, we thought we better stop by to make sure everything was okay. Clearly, it is, and you’re off to some big shindig at the local feed store.” Chelsea pointed at her dress. “Hope you get there before all the good hitchin’ spots are gone.”

“It’s not that bad,” Violet said, defending her fashion choice.

Jules snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, Little House on the Prairie. You and Pa gonna rustle up some vittles for supper?”

“At least lose the sweater,” Chelsea offered. “You look like your mom.”

Claire, still sitting in the car, glanced up. “She’s right, V. You totally do.”

Violet glanced down at the dress, thinking how much she’d liked it when she’d tried it on. Remembering, too, that it had been Chelsea who’d talked her into buying it in the first place, telling her how the halter top showed off her shoulders. Of course that was before she’d covered them up with her mom’s oversized cardigan. “Sorry, guys. I . . . gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

“So you’re really not gonna tell us what this is all about, are you?” Chelsea drawled as if she wasn’t at all surprised by Violet’s secrecy.

Violet felt a stab of guilt as she turned her back on her friends and climbed into her car. More secrets, she thought regretfully, trying to squelch the feeling as she pulled out of her driveway and watched her friends disappear in her rearview mirror.

While she was driving, she reached for her purse, digging around for the directions she’d printed, but couldn’t find them. It didn’t matter, though. She knew the general direction, and even before she’d reached the gates of the cemetery, she knew she was in the right place. She had to blink several times as colors began to blot her vision. And, of course, there was the smell.

This was definitely it, she thought, pulling her car to a stop behind a large procession that was already parked up and down the narrow road. She had to get out and walk the rest of the way, picking her way past the grave markers and headstones as other—less familiar—sensations pricked at her.

Most were dull, the way they always were once they were buried . . . staticky and bleeding into one another. Like the animals buried in Shady Acres. But some managed to find their way above the rest, demanding to be noticed.

A ripping sound, like paper. Tear after tear after tear.

The smell of laundry detergent, strong enough that it nearly made her eyes water.

And then there was the one that made Violet turn around, more than once, checking to make certain there was no one standing behind her. The feel of warm air—like someone breathing too near the base of her neck. It persisted even when she tried to rub it away.

But she continued to follow the smell of coffee and the trail of cars that led her toward the service, which was already underway in the central part of the cemetery.

Far off, she could hear a man’s voice, speaking in the resonant tone of a minister or a priest—someone reading passages and trying to give comfort to those who were grieving. Violet hadn’t been to many funerals, but she imagined they were all sort of alike in that regard.

She stood back, keeping her distance as she spied on the funeral from behind both a tree that blocked her from view, and the medley of colors that clouded her eyesight.

There were three coffins, one much smaller than the other two, and Violet wondered if it was strange that they were holding the service without the daughter being present . . . without even knowing where she was, or whether she should be joining her family in the ground today. She supposed they had to have the funeral eventually, and that those left behind deserved their closure too.

There were flowers everywhere, making it look more like a garden show than a funeral. And behind the caskets, there was an easel with a blown-up family photograph propped up on it—one that included the girl.

They were a lovely family, Violet couldn’t help thinking, as she gripped the rough tree bark, trying hard not to look too long at the little boy with freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose.

She turned instead to the people in attendance. There were so many of them, far too many to simply be family members. But Violet’s attention was drawn by a couple sitting in the front row, closest to the three caskets. They were older, much older than the couple being buried, and she watched as they leaned into each other. Or rather, as she leaned into him. She blubbered mournfully against his shoulder, while he did his best to maintain a stoic expression. His lips were pressed so tightly they were nearly bloodless.

Parents, Violet thought, guessing at their relation to either the man or woman in the caskets.

Beside them, two women squeezed hands, each pressing tissues to their mouths. One cried soundlessly as the other sniffled and choked loudly on her sobs. From their resemblance, Violet thought the two might be sisters.

When the man speaking, the minister or preacher or priest or whoever he was, finished, he asked if anyone wanted to share stories of the family. He said their names, and even from where she stood, Violet could hear them: Brian, Dawn, and Tyler.

Tyler. The little boy with the freckles was Tyler.

Her chest constricted as she thought of all the things Tyler would never get to experience, of all the things he’d miss out on: kissing a girl, driving a car, getting married, watching his children grow old.

She wondered if his sister missed him. If she’d be crying too if she were here.

She felt the hot air on the back of her neck again and she brushed at it, trying to make it go away.

“I knew you were up to something,” the voice behind her said. Violet jumped, whirling to stare into Chelsea’s I-told-you-so expression. “I knew I’d catch you eventually. So what’s the deal, V? Why are you all dressed up like you’re going on a job interview or something? You applying to be a gravedigger?”

Violet just stared at her friend, her throat constricting as she tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why she was standing in a cemetery, hiding behind a tree.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Chelsea said when Violet didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t answer. “So what is it then?”

Violet blinked, mustering up the only words she could manage, “Where are Jules and Claire?” She looked past Chelsea, still trying to figure out what her friend was doing here, how she’d found her. “Are they . . . are they here?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I dropped ’em off at school. But after I saw you, I decided I had better things to do than learning inverse trig functions.” She wiggled her eyebrows, letting Violet know that she was that better thing. “Oh, and you dropped this.” She waved a piece of paper in front of Violet, the printed directions she’d been searching for.

They stared at each other for several long seconds, neither of them speaking.

Chelsea looked past Violet then, to where the funeral was still underway. To where the three caskets were lined up perfectly, ready to be lowered into the ground. Her brows drew together, and Violet could see her working it out, piecing it all together, and then she turned back to Violet, her expression clearing. “Oh my god,” she breathed. And then again, as she squeezed Violet’s arm. “Oh my god.” She looked at Violet with eyes that were wide and lucid. “It was you, wasn’t it? It was you at the house on the lake.”

Violet’s heart crashed in her chest, but she didn’t answer. Chelsea didn’t seem to notice. She looked at Violet like she’d never looked at her before, with a mixture of shock and awe. “You were the White River student who found the bodies. And now you’re here, watching their funeral.” She frowned, confused all over again. “Why? Why would you come here?”

Violet reached up to cling to the tree for balance. Her head was spinning, and she was choking on the accusations her friend threw her way. As if somehow the truth was filling her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

She looked at Chelsea, a girl she’d known her entire life. Someone she’d grown up with, someone she’d laughed with and leaned on. This was her friend. One of her very best friends in the entire world. Why shouldn’t she tell her? Why shouldn’t she know what Violet could do . . . and why she was here now?

She thought of Jay, and how he wasn’t talking to her because he was sick and tired of all the lies.

And then she thought of her grandmother, and how she’d once tried to confide in someone she’d cared about. Ian. How he’d turned on her and told others her secret. How she’d been considered a freak . . . and had been ostracized by her entire community. By her own family, even.

But this was Chelsea, Violet told herself, looking into her friend’s expectant eyes. Eyes that begged for an explanation.

“Come on,” Violet said abruptly, making her decision as she reached for Chelsea’s hand and dragged her away from the shelter of the tree.



“I don’t get it. What are we doing out here?” Chelsea complained for the millionth time. “When are you going to talk to me?”

Violet lifted her skirt as she picked her way along the overgrown path. It was cooler here, beneath the canopy of trees, and there were mosquitoes to contend with. She was glad for the sweater she’d swiped from her mom’s closet. “Just wait,” Violet told Chelsea, concentrating on her steps. It was harder to walk in the girly flats than she’d realized it would be this deep in the woods.

It was easier to concentrate now, though, since the bodies had finally been lowered into the ground and the first soft shovelfuls of dirt had been tossed upon their caskets. The bodies had said good-bye to the earthly world. They had their peace.

And so did Violet.

She hadn’t realized just how much tension she’d been carrying until that moment, until the last body had let go. It was almost hard to believe she hadn’t noticed it sooner, the way the muscles of her shoulders had felt bunched and tight, the way her jaw had clenched.

Everything unraveled now, freeing her as well.

“How much farther?” Chelsea asked from beside her, swatting at a bug on her arm. “I’m getting eaten alive here.”

But they were close now . . . very, very close. Violet could feel the vibrations just beneath her skin. Rippling outward as the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end, alert.

Violet stepped off the path, reaching for Chelsea and dragging her with her. Chelsea stumbled but caught herself before she actually fell. She even managed not to complain about the detour, and instead remained silent as Violet lost herself in the sensation that tugged her . . . reaching into her gut and propelling her forward.

Ahead of her, Violet could see a soft red radiance, the echo that came up from the ground, near the base of a gnarled pine trunk. A glow that existed only in that single space on the forest floor.

“Here,” she whispered reverently, bending down and scooping the soil with her bare hands. “I told you it wouldn’t be far.”

“Um, okay . . .” Chelsea said dubiously, as she fell back and watched, like Violet had lost her mind.

And maybe she had. Maybe this was all just a huge mistake.

It only took a second to uncover the body. A dead possum.

It was ugly and partially decayed and its teeth were still exposed as if it had died trying to defend itself.

Chelsea staggered backward. “Gross, Vi! What the frak? That’s disgusting!”

But Violet wasn’t deterred. She stood up and brushed her hands on her skirt. “You asked if it was me who found those bodies at the lake that day . . . ?” Violet said, speaking slowly now, carefully. She paused only for a moment and then plunged ahead. “It was me,” she confirmed, watching her friend closely for signs that this might be too much information to take in at once. “It’s kinda what I do, Chels.”

“What you . . . ? What do you mean, it’s what you do?”

Violet pointed at the possum and Chelsea glanced down too, flinching before she looked away again, acting as if she might puke. “I find bodies,” Violet told her.

She waited for Chelsea to say something, to tell Violet she was crazy or to warn her to stay away from her. Instead Chelsea looked stunned as she glanced first to Violet and then back to the dead animal, and then back to Violet again. Doubt gradually transformed her features.

And then she pretended to cough the word bullshit, as she propped her hands on her hips. “No one finds dead bodies.”

Violet shrugged, her brows raised as she did her best to emulate the same cocky gesture she’d seen Chelsea pull off a thousand times before. “I do.”

“You could’ve planted that.” Chelsea nodded toward the possum, barely able to look at its decomposing form.

Violet thought about that for a minute. “Really, Chels? Why would I do that? On the off chance that you discovered my little secret and decided to call me on it? And how would I know when that might happen? Wouldn’t I have to plant a dead possum, like, every day or something?”

“Didn’t say it had to be a possum.” But then Chelsea stopped to consider Violet’s explanation. “So, if you didn’t plant it, find another one,” she challenged.

Violet shrugged. Cynicism was way easier to deal with than straight-up disbelief. At least Chelsea wasn’t shutting her out. “Fine, but I can’t promise how long it’ll take.”

“Course you can’t,” Chelsea chided, making it clear that she doubted Violet would ever “find” another body again. At least not the way she’d just found this one. Still, she followed as Violet moved back toward the path that was overrun with branches and roots.

It didn’t take as long as Violet thought it might. There was another echo nearby, not as strong as the first one, but noticeable nonetheless. It reached into Violet’s gut and tugged her, a sensation she doubted she’d ever really be able to explain to anyone, as if her body were no longer moving of its own accord. As if she were possessed.

She answered the call, straying from the path, and she could hear Chelsea right behind her, saying nothing at all. The only sounds were the twigs that snapped beneath Chelsea’s sneakers—shoes that were far more suitable for this terrain than Violet’s.

At first, Violet thought the echo was faint, but she soon realized she was mistaken. It wasn’t faint, it was just . . . melodic.

This echo was a sound.

A sound that made Violet grin as she drew nearer, and it grew clearer, louder. It was like she’d stumbled into a carnival, the music lilting and rising.

No, Violet thought. Not like a carnival, like a carousel. The music reminded her of riding the colorfully painted wooden horses when she was a little girl.

She stopped suddenly, every nerve in her body telling her she was in the right place. She turned to Chelsea. “This is it.”

Chelsea gave her a look that told her what she thought about her proclamation: Violet was full of crap.

But Violet was already turning away from her, falling to her hands and knees as she began brushing away the thin layer of rotting leaves and needles and twigs. Her heart was beating harder than it should, almost as if some part of her worried that Chelsea might be right. That there might not be anything there at all.

But then she felt it. She let the carousel sound overtake her, relishing this song, one that was so different from what her own imprint had been, with its notes rising and falling over her like a nostalgic rainstorm, drenching her. She smoothed the remaining dirt away, creating a small circle on the ground so Chelsea could see what Violet saw.

“Holy . . .” Chelsea breathed from over her shoulder now, looking down at the animal—a squirrel, or maybe a rabbit. Something too small and too far decomposed to be recognizable any longer.

Violet turned back, a sly smile finding her lips. “Bang,” she said. “I just blew your mind.” But she said it quietly, as if she were afraid she might disturb the animal beneath them.

Then Chelsea leaned away from Violet—and her discovery—as she lifted the hem of her shirt up to cover her nose. “Oh my god!” she gasped. “Do they always smell this bad?”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Violet admitted. And it was. Sometimes it was almost unbearable.

Chelsea took a couple of steps back, and Violet watched her as the color drained from her face. “So, are you telling me this is for real? This body-finding stuff?” Her face had gone chalk white. “This is freaking me the hell out, Violet.”

Violet reburied the animal, gently mounding the leaves and dirt back in place before standing up again. “Yeah, Chels. It’s for real,” she said. “And no one knows about it. You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone. It has to be a secret. Our secret.” Violet waited for Chelsea to meet her gaze. “Promise,” she coaxed her friend.

Chelsea nodded, but it was slow . . . the exact opposite of her usual unflappable determination. Her hesitation made Violet uneasy. But then she recovered, and she clutched Violet, gripping her upper arms and leaning so close that Violet could smell peanut butter on her breath. “I promise,” she swore without a trace of doubt. “Whatever you want.” Her eyes were shiny and filled with utter confidence now—just like the Chelsea that Violet needed her to be. “Dude, you know I love you. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Consider it in the vault.”

Violet smiled—both on the outside and on the inside. Everything about her felt better . . . lighter. Why had she waited so long to share this? Why had she thought she needed to keep this a secret for so long?

Chelsea could handle this.

She could handle this.

Chelsea’s eyes continued to glitter as she clutched Violet. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means you’re some kind of superhero or something.”

The smile slipped from Violet’s lips, even as nervous laughter bubbled up her throat. “Uh, no, Chels, it doesn’t.”

But she could see the wheels in Chelsea’s head already turning. “Think about it, Vi. How many people do you think can do this? I’ve never heard of it before, have you?” She didn’t wait for Violet to answer, she could carry this conversation on her own. “None. And you know why? Because you’re special. Like Superman or Spider-Man or Batman.” She stopped. “Scratch that, not like Batman. He was just some dude with a bunch of cool gadgets on his belt. But you know what I mean, you have a power. A power, Vi.” Her eyes got wide then . . . like, lunatic asylum wide. She was grinning now. “You know what you need, don’t you?”

Violet groaned, wondering how this conversation had gone sideways. She answered hesitantly, worried about what she might hear next. “What’s that, Chels?”

“A sidekick!” Chelsea announced, beaming back at her, and suddenly Violet realized why she’d been so worried. Because Chelsea was a lunatic. “And who better to be your Robin than me? Not only can I keep your secret, I can help you.”

This time it was Violet grabbing Chelsea’s arms. She gave her a brisk shake, trying to snap her back to reality. “I’m. Not. A. Superhero,” she insisted, enunciating each word carefully. “And what, exactly, would you help me do? Comb the woods searching for dead animals? I seriously don’t think we need capes and secret identities for those kinds of adventures.”

Chelsea deflated beneath her, but she shot Violet a withering stare. “Buzz kill,” she accused. “Fine. No capes . . . got it. But I have, like, a million questions. I don’t even know where to start.”

Violet just smiled. That, she could totally understand. It was a lot to take in, a lot to process. Chelsea had just discovered that her best friend was some sort of freak of nature.

She dragged Chelsea over to where there was a large boulder covered with sprinkles of soft green moss. “Here,” Violet told her, waiting till Chelsea got settled. “Think about it for a minute. Then you can ask me whatever you want, ’kay?”

Violet kept a watchful eye on Chelsea as she sat down. She was glad when the color returned to her friend’s cheeks, and it didn’t take long for Chelsea to gather her thoughts, sounding more like herself again. Flippant, but rational . . . ish. “So, you’re definitely not some kind of necrophiliac or anything, right?”

“Gross, Chels!” Violet shuddered. “You’re disgusting.”

“Me?” Chelsea sounded shocked at the accusation. “And you’re trying to tell me that that . . .” She waved her hand toward the newly mounded soil in front of them. “That that isn’t disgusting?”

Violet thought about it for a second, then half shrugged. “Well, sort of. I guess. But in a completely different way. It’s not like I wanna make out with the bodies I find. I’m only drawn to find them. And only if they’ve been . . .” She hesitated, uncertain how to explain this part. “Only if they’ve been murdered.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew three sizes larger. “So you’re saying that thing was murdered?”

“I’m saying it didn’t die of natural causes. Something killed it, probably a coyote or a cat or something.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Chelsea said, as if she were glitching. She took a breath. “Okay,” she repeated. “Let’s start at the beginning. How long have you known about this?”

Violet tried to remember the first time she’d realized she was different, when she knew that she was doing something other kids didn’t do. She was little, that much she remembered. And she’d been with her father, walking in the woods around their house.

She remembered her father telling her, even then, how important it was for her not to tell anyone about it—what she could do.

And here she was, confessing everything.

“Forever,” she said at last. “For as long as I can remember.”

Chelsea’s mouth dropped open. “And you never said anything . . . to anyone?”

“Except my family. And Jay,” she admitted guiltily.

Jumping up from the rock, Chelsea pointed her finger accusingly. “Oh, come on! Are you kidding me? He got to know and I didn’t? How long, Vi? How long has he known?”

Violet couldn’t stop her laugh. She knew Chelsea wouldn’t like the answer. “Since the summer between first and second grade. He used to help me bury animals in my graveyard.”

“Your what?” Chelsea asked, her brows and lips all pinched and puckered. “Is that what that thing in your yard is? By the woods?” When Violet just nodded, Chelsea grimaced. “Burying animals in your backyard, isn’t that one of the signs they look for in a serial killer? That, and, like, bed-wetting or something?”

“I think it’s torturing animals, not burying animals in a graveyard, Chelsea. Big difference.”

Chelsea sat back down, still shaking her head. Still not happy that she’d been left out of the circle of trust all these years. “Yeah. You’re probably right,” she said, sounding serious now, and Violet wondered if she should be offended that Chelsea had said “probably,” like there was still some doubt. But she’d already moved on to her next question, and she leaned forward, captivated. Morbidly curious. “So, how does it work anyway? How do you know where to find them? How did you find that family at the lake?”

She’d had to explain this before, but for some reason, trying to find the words to tell Chelsea was harder. And infinitely more important.

She bit her lip as she lowered herself to the ground in front of the boulder, sitting in front of her friend. She drew her knees against her chest and hugged them tightly. “It’s weird,” she started. “It’s like an itching under my skin at first, like everything inside of me is tingling. Sometimes I don’t even realize it’s happening, I’m just pulled in a certain direction, almost against my will.” She glanced up, stealing quick glimpses at Chelsea as she leaned her chin against her knees. “As I get closer, it changes, and every body develops a unique energy all its own. It’s like a signature. I call it an echo, but only because that’s what my grandmother called it.”

“Your grandmother knew too?” Chelsea asked, her voice small and awed now.

“My grandmother had it too,” Violet told her. “These echoes can be anything, a taste, a smell, a color, a sound, a sensation. No two are alike, at least that I know of. And here’s the weird part . . .”

“Dude. There’s a ‘weird part’?”

The corner of Violet’s lip pulled up. “Right?” she said, agreeing that it had already reached maximum weirdness. And then she plunged ahead. “Whatever that echo is also attaches to the killer too, exactly the same. I call it an imprint.”

Chelsea only missed a beat before she quietly said, “Now you blew my mind. So there are freaky killers walkin’ around out there that you can smell and taste? And they don’t even know it?”

“Totally.” Violet nodded. “But not just bad-guy killers. Cops and hunters, too. And people who’ve been in wars. I can’t tell them apart.”

“And animals?” Chelsea asked, already sorting through the pieces.

“My cat always comes home with imprints. Drives me crazy sometimes.”

Chelsea took a breath and leaned back on her hands as she studied Violet through brand-new eyes. “Is it weird?” She shook her head, as if trying to imagine it.

Violet scowled playfully. “I find dead bodies, Chels. How could it not be weird?”

Chelsea nodded, as if realizing how stupid her question had been. “Were the people at the lake the first . . . you know, humans you’ve ever found?”

Violet thought about how to answer that. She didn’t want to lie, not anymore. But she didn’t want to tell the whole truth either. There were still things she didn’t want to share, things she shouldn’t—and couldn’t—share. Like about her team.

She waited too long and Chelsea leaned forward, waiting expectantly, knowing there was more.

“When I was eight, I found a girl buried in the woods near my house,” Violet finally answered, skirting the issue by giving part of an answer. “And you already know that Jay and I found that body in the lake last year.” She didn’t tell Chelsea about all the other bodies she’d found.

“Oh yeah . . . the floater. Gross.” She wrinkled her nose. “So I’m guessing that wasn’t an accident. You didn’t just happen to see it while you were out on the lake the way you said you did?”

Violet shook her head.

“What are they like, the bodies? Does it freak you out? I gotta admit, I think I might pee my pants if I were in your shoes.”

Violet stifled a giggle against the tops of her knees. “Well, I haven’t peed yet, but I’ll definitely keep you posted.” And then she shrugged. “It’s definitely not like on TV. There, the bodies still look”—she struggled for the right way to describe it—“like real people. Like they could just sit up and start talking to you. But real bodies, the ones I’ve seen at least, are obviously dead. The girl in the lake was so bloated that her skin didn’t look like it even belonged on her anymore. It was shiny and blistery looking, and didn’t sit right on her features. And I could see right through her skin in places. It was like looking at a water-logged roadmap.” Violet kept her gaze on Chelsea, making sure she wasn’t being too graphic. “The girl who was buried near my house when I was little already had bugs on her when I found her. They were eating her.”

Chelsea cringed, and Violet thought about the family at the lake house, about their wounds, and wondered what Chelsea would think if she knew how their necks had looked, about the way the edges weren’t smooth and clean the way they would have been if it had been on television. Instead they were ragged . . . as if they’d been gored rather than sliced.

But Chelsea didn’t need to know such things. No one did.

Violet got up and held her hand out to her friend. “Come on, Chelsea. We should get back, it’s been a long day.”

Chelsea followed Violet’s gaze, looking up at the sun through the filter of leaves overhead. It wasn’t late. Not really. But it felt like it was.

It felt like they’d been out there forever.





BIRDS OF A FEATHER


“PLAY IT AGAIN.” KISHA CLAPPED, HER ENTHUSIASM making her look younger, less tired. Less strung out.

Evan grinned back at her, laying his guitar aside. “Maybe later, Kish, I’m tired.”

He wasn’t really; he could play all day, especially in the park where his playing drew attention . . . a real audience.

Except that today they had another purpose. Today was meant as a scouting mission.

He looked over to where Butterfly tried to get comfortable on the blanket Boxer had spread out for them. She squirmed, her body racked by an unexpected, relentless tremor, and he wondered if she even realized what was happening to her as she reached down to resume picking at the scab on her hand. It was easy to recognize the nervous energy she was trying to release, easy to spot an addict craving a new high.

When they’d first found her, less than a month ago, she’d been pretty and fresh faced. Despite her attempts to look urban, he’d pegged her for what she was: a bored rich girl who was trying to rebel against her parents, to prove there was more to her than spray tan and strawberry lip gloss.

To look at her now was like a study in contrasts. Her hair, which had once been a soft shade of reddish-blonde, had since been dyed black, but was now faded and dirty. Her skin, which had been clear, was now marked with pockets of acne, and her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes, although sunken and ringed with dark circles, were the only giveaway to the girl she’d once been, big and silvery green-gray, made more mesmerizing by the pining that tormented her.

He couldn’t help her now though. He had to save enough for Bailey, who was getting progressively worse, her tolerance getting harder and harder to satisfy. Kisha and Boxer and Colton, at least, could function on small hits here and there. Bailey could no longer get up in the morning without the needle. And he couldn’t bear to watch her tweak the way he was watching Butterfly do now.

Bailey had been the first to call him “family.” The first to let him take care of her.

He refused to let her down, but at the rate she was going, she’d used up most of their stash. And he couldn’t afford to let the rest of them come down for too long. He couldn’t risk not having them need him. Not having them depend on him.

He’d need to score some more cash soon. And more cash meant finding a new mark.

“What about them?” Colton said, pointing with one hand while biting a nail on his other. “They look like they have money.”

He watched the picturesque family, spreading out their picnic on the checkered blanket. This was the strange part about being out of the city and in the suburbs: Everyone looking like they’d walked straight out of the pages of a catalog, like they were props or paper dolls. All of them pretending that people like him—and his family—didn’t exist. He scrutinized them for several long minutes, trying to decide if they could be right . . . analyzing their body language, the way they interacted with one another, the way they talked, laughed, and even breathed. He was a lion, stalking his prey, waiting for his chance to pounce.

After several long moments, he shook his head. “No. No good, man.”

“Why not?” Colton whined, his voice fraying at the edges as if he were unraveling right before their eyes.

Something gentle and protective unfurled within him. This was what family did, he told himself. This was his purpose, to protect them. To teach them. “See her purse? It’s a knockoff. And check out her hair. See her dark roots? That kind of grow-out says she hasn’t been to whatever second-rate salon she goes to in months . . . way too long. Even the kid’s shoes are from Wal-Mart or Target.” He pointed at the girl, a preschooler with the kind of golden blonde hair that the mommy had probably been trying to cling to with her discount highlights. “Parents don’t usually skimp on the kids’ shit. Not if they don’t have to.” He looked away from them, no longer interested in what they had to offer. “Nah, they’re no good. We need to find someone else.”

“Dude, you sound like a fag when you talk about handbags and hair salons. You know that, don’t you?” Boxer laughed, shoving him. “So who then?” he asked.

He realized then that Boxer wasn’t shaking as badly as Butterfly or Colton, and he wondered if his old friend had gotten into their stash when he wasn’t looking. He wondered if his authority might be slipping.

But Colton demanded his attention as he still strained toward the picture-perfect family. “We could still do ’em.”

Kisha bit her already chapped lip until it bled. “What’s the point, Colt? Why bother if they don’t have nothing we want?”

Colton grinned, a smile so huge it was almost menacing. It was menacing. “For fun. We could still have fun with ’em. What d’ya say, Butterfly? You wanna have some more fun, don’t you?”

Something flashed behind Butterfly’s eerie greenish eyes, something close to comprehension, as if she nearly understood what he meant. As if she nearly remembered what they’d done to her family.

Not that he cared, really. She hadn’t stopped them. She’d participated with the rest of them as they’d yanked the parents from their bed and dragged them down the stairs. She’d helped tie her mom’s and dad’s hands behind their backs, never even flinching as they’d begged for their lives. As they’d begged their daughter not to do this.

She’d hardly blinked when Colton had pulled his knife out. She’d giggled, even, as Boxer had sliced her mother’s throat.

She was high as shit, but she was there.

He knew, because he was the one who’d given the commands. He’d been the one carefully orchestrating the blitz on her family. And then he’d stood back and watched as his plans were carried out, each of his own family members following orders to a T while he looted the house for stuff that could be sold easily for cash.

He’d been surprised, though, by the intoxicating rush he’d felt at pulling the strings, despite letting the others have all the real “fun.”

It was also when he realized he had a new calling. That he wanted people to see what he’d done, to know what he was capable of.

There were other ways to achieve fame. Other ways to make the world bow at his feet.

When the kid had come down the stairs and recognized his sister, he’d asked her what was wrong, what was happening. It wasn’t until he saw his parents, when his face had twisted with fear and he’d screamed, that Butterfly had lost her shit. That’s when she’d wanted out. That was when the high wore off and reality kicked in.

But it was already too late. She was in it. She’d joined their family then.

Boxer had hauled her into the other room and dosed her again, making sure she would either cooperate, pass out, or die. It didn’t matter which, as long as she’d shut the hell up. As long as she’d stop f*cking crying.

The kid had been tougher to watch. Not impossible, just tougher. Especially when Colton had decided to take a souvenir.

Watching as Colton had gutted the kid like that . . .

It wasn’t like in the movies where someone just reaches in and pulls out a still-beating heart. No, Colton had had to work at it, sawing at the kid’s chest to get through.

It was messy. And the sounds of knife grating through bone . . . it was disgusting.

He watched Butterfly now, as she frowned, trying to make sense of Colton’s words. And then he turned to Colton, staring into his cold, emotionless eyes. “Leave her alone, will ya? I said no. We need someone else.”

Colton held his gaze, and he wondered if this was it, the challenge he’d been waiting for, the moment someone would decide that he wasn’t their leader. That he wasn’t calling the shots. But then Colton waved his hand, as if batting away a fly. “Whatever, man. You’re no fun sometimes.”

He smiled then. “I didn’t say we weren’t gonna have fun today.” He lifted his chin, nodding toward a couple who were just getting out of a silver Mercedes at the edge of the parking lot. The purse draped over the woman’s shoulder probably cost more than his parents’ house had, and they both wore designer sunglasses with big garish logos on them. “What about them?”

Butterfly followed his gaze as her body was racked by another spasm.

Kisha leaned up behind him, whispering softly against his ear. “She looks like she deserves it, doesn’t she, baby?”

Colton answered before he had a chance to. “She totally does. They both do.”