Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel

Chapter 14


“I’M SURPRISED YOU CALLED. YOU DIDN’T LOOK so good back at the Center, I thought you’d probably go home and crash.”

Violet surveyed Krystal’s striped tights and her bright purple boots. She imagined herself trying to pull off the same look and knew she could never do it, that she’d only seem ridiculous. Yet Krystal rocked it, wearing her black lace-up bustier dress with the deep purple ruffles that peeked out from beneath the thicker layers of black that covered them like sable clouds. “I was hoping we could talk,” she said, looking around The Crystal Palace.

Usually it was quiet here, a place where people came to get their palms read, and shop for incense, healing stones, and massage oils in peace. But tonight, there was something going on, and the place was more packed than Violet had ever seen it.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that. Séance,” Krystal said, nodding toward the crush of people milling together among the shelves and tables and displays.

Violet took a closer look at their faces, and noted their shared swollen eyes, and the way they clung to one another, holding hands and offering whispers of support.

Krystal lowered her voice into what should have been a whisper, but was still too loud, drawing more than one set of eyes her way. She pointed at a couple standing together, and Violet realized they were at the center of the congregation. “They’re trying to figure out why their son killed himself.”

“Uh . . . oh, sorry, is this a bad time then?” Violet asked, shifting nervously now as even more of the people turned to look their way. She felt suddenly like she was interrupting something very private. “I can come back . . . you know, later.”

Krystal scoffed at the idea, dismissing it with a wave of one of her fingerless-gloved hands. “Nah. I’m not performing the séance. Mystique is doing it.” She pointed again, indicating a small woman who was seated on a pile of colorful throw pillows surrounding a short, round table.

Violet had done her best to avoid Mystique—the shop’s owner—ever since their first unfortunate meeting. Krystal had introduced Violet to the woman, who was older than both of the girls, closer to her mom’s age, as a “friend,” never mentioning anything about the team or that Violet had an unusual ability of her own. Not that she’d expected Krystal to share that kind of information with her boss . . . those matters were meant to stay private. Secret.

But Mystique had misunderstood Krystal’s use of the term friend, deciding that Violet must be Krystal’s latest girlfriend . . . of whom, apparently, there had been more than a few. She’d started asking Violet all about her background, her family, where she’d grown up, and where she went to school. It wasn’t until she’d started asking about Violet’s former “friends,” and what her intentions toward Krystal were, that Violet realized what she was really getting at, and by then she’d backed Violet all the way up against the counter and was practically breathing down her neck.

Trapped, Violet had searched for Krystal, hoping her friend might bail her out of the sticky situation. But Krystal, Violet realized when she spotted her leaning against a rack of lotions and body sprays designed to open up your chakras, was grinning back at her, amused by Mystique’s interrogation techniques.

It seemed to Violet that a woman like Mystique, who claimed to have psychic abilities, should have realized that Violet was freaking the hell out . . . and that she wasn’t Krystal’s girlfriend. You know, just for the record.

Now, as Violet caught sight of the woman hunched in front of the table, she felt trapped again by her black, weasel-like eyes. She wanted to search for a way to escape that beady gaze, feeling like Mystique was trying to peer inside of her. She was grateful for the mass of people who surrounded the table. Mystique had other matters at hand to contend with that didn’t involve questioning Violet about her sexual history.

“Come on,” Krystal said, reaching for Violet’s hand and dragging her through the plastic beads that separated the cluttered storefront from the even more cluttered storeroom in back. “I needed a break anyway, that kid wouldn’t shut up. All he wants is to be left alone, and for his parents to stop blubbering over him.” She plopped down onto a stack of boxes and reached for a can of Diet Coke that was already opened, a straw with a purple smear of lipstick circling its top sticking out of it.

“Wait, do you mean he’s in there . . . the boy who killed himself? With his family?” Violet asked, waving away the can when Krystal held it out to her. “Does Mystique know? Will she tell them, you know, to . . .” She made an uncertain face, not sure what, exactly, Mystique should tell the grieving parents. “To move on or whatever?”

Krystal nodded, as if that much were obvious. “I told her. She’ll pass the message along to them. It’ll make ’em feel better to know he’s okay.”

Violet cocked her head. “But she can’t . . . or can she . . . ?”

Krystal waited for her to finish her sentence, but when she didn’t, Krystal filled in the blanks for her. “Hear him? No. I’m not sure what Mystique does or doesn’t hear, but she definitely didn’t hear this kid, otherwise she’d’ve needed a break too.” She sighed, taking another long sip from her straw. “So, what’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” Violet reached into her purse and drew out her grandmother’s journal. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.”

She plucked the picture from beneath the cover and held it out to Krystal, watching as Krystal took it from her. “What am I looking for?”

“Just tell me if anyone looks . . . familiar.”

Krystal looked back down, and Violet waited. Krystal’s eyes moved over the image, starting from one side, the side where Violet’s grandmother was, and moving across it. Within seconds, she glanced up, a sly grin on her face, as if she’d just solved a complicated riddle. “That’s Dr. Lee, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that’s not who I meant. Keep looking.”

Frowning, she turned to the picture again. And then she froze, her face creasing with concentration, or maybe it was confusion, or disbelief, Violet wasn’t entirely sure which. “That’s my mom,” she said, reaching out to tap the photo of a soft, nondescript-looking woman with mousy blonde-brown hair and full hips. She looked nothing at all like Krystal, who was garish and bold, and was at least partially of Asian descent. “Where did you get this?” And then as if puzzling it out, she asked, “Why is my mom in a picture with Dr. Lee?”

Violet reached over and took the photograph, not comfortable with anyone else holding it for too long. She didn’t want it destroyed—the only piece of tangible evidence she had that the Circle of Seven had been real. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. Your mom. Dr. Lee.” She pointed to the picture. “My grandmother.” She moved her finger. “Rafe’s mom. They all knew one another. They all belonged on a team that called themselves the Circle of Seven.” She glanced up at Krystal, who still wore the same bewildered expression on her face. “They all had abilities, I think. Like us.”



Even after spending nearly an hour talking the whole thing over with Krystal, who was as baffled as Violet was by the discovery that their family members had known one another, Violet didn’t have any more answers. She’d already known that Krystal’s mom had been able to talk to ghosts the same way Krystal could. Krystal had told her that back when they’d first met.

She was sure now that it wasn’t just chance that her grandmother, and Rafe’s and Krystal’s moms, were all on the same team as Dr. Lee. And that now she and Rafe and Krystal were all working together too.

She also didn’t think it was a coincidence that Sam’s grandmother had looked familiar . . . as impossible as it seemed.

Her team had been brought together, the same way their relatives had been.

But by whom? And why?

When she got home, she called Rafe and told him about Krystal’s mother. He needed to know everything she did. She could no longer pretend she was in this alone. If Dr. Lee wanted her to be on a team so badly, then she’d stop fighting it and be the best darn team member she could be.

No more secrets . . . no more lies.

At least as far as those she trusted were concerned. And right now that list included Rafe and Krystal and Sam. Gemma, she still wasn’t sure about, but Violet had no doubt that, whether she knew it or not, Gemma had a family member in the photograph that she kept hidden inside her grandmother’s journal. Growing up in the foster system meant that, whoever Gemma’s parents had been, they’d either been unwilling, or unable, to care for her.

Violet wasn’t sure which would be more difficult to accept. No wonder Gemma had such a chip on her shoulder.

But for now, at least, Violet wasn’t exactly ready to confide in Gemma.

Sara was also on the iffy list. Sara had saved her life on more than one occasion, but she couldn’t get over the feeling that Sara might be withholding information from her. Crucial information about why she’d been recruited in the first place and who ran the Center.

Until she knew for sure, she decided it was better to keep Sara on a need-to-know basis.

She broached the Sara subject carefully with Rafe, feeling a twinge of guilt. “How are things going on your end?” she asked, after she’d finished telling him about her meeting with Krystal at The Crystal Palace. “Did you talk to Sara, or . . . find anything . . . helpful?”

“I told you. I don’t think she knows anything.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “But I searched her room this afternoon, while she was still at the Center, and I came up empty.” Violet knew Rafe didn’t want to spy on his sister like that, but she also knew he understood how important it was to figure out who they could trust. “I found some of our mom’s things, and I even went through those, but . . .” There was another pause. “Nothing. All I get when I touch Sara’s things is this sense that she believes in what she’s doing, and sometimes I get flashes of old memories. I feel like I’m eavesdropping on things I shouldn’t be watching—personal moments. But nothing incriminating. I think she’s clean, V.”

“I’m sure she is,” Violet agreed, and meant it. “But we still need to be careful.”

He laughed. “You’re paranoid.” It was an accusation, but Violet didn’t respond. She didn’t have to, because Rafe was talking again before she could defend herself. “So now that we’ve got all that outta the way, you ready to tell me what the hell was goin’ on between you and Boy Wonder back at the Center?”





SPARE THE ROD


EVAN STAYED BACK, HIDING IN THE SHADOWS. HE knew he wouldn’t have to wait for long; Colton would be out of cash soon. He’d only had twelve bucks going in, and twelve bucks didn’t go very far in place like this.

But it would be just enough to keep him off balance.

He knew that much from years of watching his mother scrape together change, searching beneath couch cushions and under floor mats, even raiding his piggy bank, before she’d drag him down the street to the crumbling house, the one on the corner that even a six-year-old knew was where the drugs were sold. She’d make him wait outside on the sidewalk while she went in with her pockets jangling.

And when she’d come back out again, she’d be a whole different person. Not the mom whose face had been tense and sweaty and gray, the one who’d given him an almost indifferent peck on the cheek. No, this mom would be flushed and would kiss him with lips that were too wet and too enthusiastic. It was her eyes that always got him, though . . . they were far too shiny. These were not his mother’s eyes.

That was on the days when she actually came back outside.

The other days she just left him there, out on the street by himself. He would wait and wait for her, too afraid to creep to the door and ask for her. Mostly, he would hide in the bushes and watch, hoping that the next time the door opened, it would be her . . . that other mom.

Eventually, night would fall, and he’d get tired and scared. He was old enough to know he shouldn’t be out that late, and the people who came and went from the dirty house where his mother was became louder and more boisterous and more daring if they saw him, hidden among the shrubs. When he wandered home, he’d sneak inside as quietly as he possible, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his dad, who was already passed out in front of the television.

But he wasn’t that same frightened little boy anymore.

And unlike his mother, he knew Colton would come out. This wasn’t the kind of place that took kindly to junkies crashing on their couch. This was a place of business, and they couldn’t have tweakers littering their floors. No, Colton would get his fix and leave.

He ducked when he saw the boy emerge from beneath the neon sign that cast a blue pallor over his skin. It was that familiar shit-eating grin plastered on Colton’s face that nearly made him reveal himself too soon. He knew that look, it told him that he’d already used. He was already high.

Good for him. Bad for Colton.

Colton never even glanced his way. Of course he didn’t. He had no reason to suspect he was being followed. He had no reason to suspect he’d overstepped his boundaries and needed to be taught a lesson.

Sauntering down the sidewalk, taking wide, zigzagging steps, Colton didn’t bother to hide that he was stoned. Yet another strike against him. How many times had Evan warned them, those in his family, that they needed to be discreet? That drawing unwanted attention would only cause trouble, would only bring them one step closer to getting caught?

Colton was a liability.

He tamped down the urge to strike now, right here in the open. To beat the stupid grin off Colton’s face.

A couple walking hand in hand saw Colton coming their way and crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him altogether. Smart. Apparently they could see what he had, the lack of inhibition, that wasted-ness about him that said he didn’t care what anyone else thought, and decided they didn’t want to tangle with him.

Colton called after them, “S’matter with you? Where ya goin . . . ?” His words were slurred as he listed toward them, nearly staggering off the curb before catching himself and shaking his fist in their direction.

The woman dropped her gaze and they both sped up their pace. It didn’t matter really, Colton could never catch up with them, not in the state he was in.

He yelled again, but it was almost impossible to tell exactly what he’d said. It sounded something like, “You think you’re too good for me?” But it might have been, “Y’fin yer two goo fer me?” It was that distorted.

He didn’t exactly feel sorry for the couple; they had no business being out here, not in this neighborhood at night. This wasn’t the kind of place people went out for a casual midnight stroll.

Once they were past though, Evan sped up, closing the distance between him and Colton. He could feel his blood pounding, could hear it pulsing in his own ears now.

It was the same way he’d felt the night they’d gone into Butterfly’s house, the same rush of adrenaline that had taken him over . . . taken them all over when he’d set his plans in motion . . . when he’d set his children loose. As they stabbed and sliced and drew messages with the blood of that other family. Butterfly’s family.

Yet even then it had been Colton who’d escalated things when he cut the boy’s chest open.

But like any good father, he’d cleaned up after them, positioning the bodies just so, setting the scene. Creating the image of the ideal family.

And now he had to clean up again, a different sort of mess.

He waited until Colton turned the corner, just past a house with boards across the windows and front door. Like so many houses in this neighborhood it was either condemned or had been foreclosed on. Something about seeing this particular house though, here and now, made him move faster, made his rage almost unbearable. He might have waited a few more blocks if he hadn’t remembered what it had been like, all those years ago, waiting behind those very bushes for a mother who might, or might not, come out to retrieve him.

“Colton,” he ground out. “Colton, wait!”

The boy in front of him swayed. It might have been comical to watch, except this was no laughing matter. “S’up, man?” Colton’s words were sluggish as he turned and saw who it was who’d called out to him. “Wha’re you do’n ou’ here?” He backtracked, taking long, lopsided steps over the cracked sidewalk.

“We need to talk.” He didn’t wait for Colton to respond, as he looped his arm around Colton’s waist and dragged him toward the bushes. The same ones where he’d once taken cover. The same ones that would hide them now.

But that smile was still there. Stupid and cocky and . . . there.

“We shoul’ go out,” Colton drawled and then poked him in the chest, as if emphasizing his point. “We shoul’ stay out all night, jus’ like the ol’ days.”

He wanted to hit him, to unleash all of his pent-up fury on him now. Instead he grabbed a handful of the other boy’s shirt, trying to make him understand. Hoping there was still a chance for reason. “No, we shouldn’t. That’s exactly why I’m here. You can’t do this shit. You can’t stumble all over town, just waitin’ for the cops to come and pick you up. Stop acting like an idiot, Colton. This isn’t just about you anymore.” Spittle flew from his lips as he shrieked in Colton’s face. He would’ve worried that someone might overhear them, that he might be the one drawing attention, but this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where others paid attention. This was a place where people kept to themselves.

Shock, and then understanding, changed the planes of Colton’s face, and his smile mutated, becoming something less than cocky, less than smug. He bared his teeth, showing his true nature. Even his words were clearer now. “Then who’s it about, Evan? You?” He slicked his hand over his greasy hair, shoving it out of his eyes as he stood upright. “I’m not one of your mindless followers like that moron Boxer or that cunt Kisha. What’re’ya gonna do, dope me up like Bailey? Make it so I don’t have a thought’a my own anymore?” There was a flash of fear behind his mud-colored eyes, almost as if he’d realized he’d gone too far, but it was gone almost as fast as it had appeared. Replaced by defiance. “You can’t tell me what to do, Evan. You’re not my father.”

And that was it, everything he’d been holding inside, everything he’d held back was unleashed. Those four simple words: You’re not my father.

Because he was. And Colton needed to understand that. Needed to realize he had to respect him as such.

His first blow was enough to drop Colton to his knees, and blood began immediately gushing from his nose. Evan’s knuckles ached, but it wasn’t satisfying, so he hit Colton again. And again. And again.

He felt removed, almost euphoric, as he released his anger, as he let it go on the boy beneath him. He pounded until his fists hurt, and then he pounded some more. He was only mildly aware of a whimpering sound, coming from somewhere far away, and of the words I am your father being repeated loudly—hoarsely—over and over again.

When he was out of breath, and his shoulders and back and arms ached so badly he couldn’t possibly lift them even one more time, he slumped forward, collapsing onto Colton. Only then did he realize that the whimpering was coming from his son—from Colton. But it wasn’t whimpering, it was wheezing.

He raised his head then, and surveyed the scene. He dropped the bloody rock he’d been holding, clutching, in his fist.

“You made me do this,” he said. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”

He waited for a response, for Colton to say, or do, something. But there was nothing. Just stillness . . . and wheezing. And blood.

He thought about the first time he’d seen Colton at the park, bruises under both of his eyes and a chip on his shoulder. He was just thirteen. Yet even then, Colton had looked up to him, had needed the older boy to watch his back out on the streets.

And he had. And when Colton had run out of places to stay, he and Bailey and Kisha and Boxer took him in.

He didn’t like that Colton had pushed him to this, that he’d given him no other options, but it was what it was. Sometimes parents had to make the tough decisions. Sometimes they had to do things for the greater good.

He leaned down, peeling away the hair that had fallen back over Colton’s eyes, hair that was now wet and sticky and red. He smoothed it away and caressed the boy’s forehead, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss there. He wanted Colton to know that, even though he’d had to be punished, they were still family . . . no matter what.

This happened in families sometimes. They fought and they made up.

And this was one of those times.