Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel

Chapter 16


“VIOLET? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” DR. LEE asked, looking around the small parking lot in front of his office.

She was glad he sounded confused; she’d meant to catch him off guard.

“I wanted to talk to you. Alone.” She stepped away from where she’d been waiting for him near his dark sedan—not quite black, but not really blue either. Nondescript. The kind of car you’d have a hard time describing in a pinch.

“You could’ve made an appointment,” he told her, still frowning. “Do you want to go inside?”

She shook her head curtly. “It’s not that kind of talk.”

Today he looked like the old Dr. Lee, wearing his cozy cardigan and canvas sneakers. This was the doctor who’d persuaded her to open up to him, to share her deepest darkest secret with him. This was the doctor she’d trusted.

But she knew the truth . . . this Dr. Lee was a fake.

His eyes narrowed, and even his stance changed as he approached her, his posture becoming more rigid and self-assured. “What kind of talk is it then?” His voice was lower too, laced with warning. She understood the meaning well enough: Watch your step.

But she was past watching her step now.

“Who are you, Dr. Lee?” She didn’t tell him why she was asking, or reveal what she knew, she merely asked that simple question. Who are you? “Or should I call you Jimmy? Who are you really?”

He stopped where he was, and his body tensed. Violet realized she’d crossed a line and was now wandering into tricky territory. She watched him as he considered her question, and she couldn’t help noting the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly, and his hands—probably without even realizing it—curled into fists.

She felt every bit as strained as he looked, and she wondered if her nostrils flared too. Her chest was constricted, squeezing the very breath from her lungs.

“What do you know?” he asked, his words whisper quiet. “What is it you think you know, Violet, because, trust me, this isn’t a road you want to go down.”

Without meaning to, she took a step back, stung by the vehemence in his tone. Maybe he was right, she thought. Maybe this was better left alone.

But then she remembered how her grandmother had been trapped, the same way she was. “No,” she mouthed at first. And then, this time louder, with more conviction. “It’s exactly the road I want to go down,” she insisted.

She reached into her purse and drew out the photograph, her heart hammering loudly, painfully. “This,” she said. “This is what I know.”

Dr. Lee stared at the image, and Violet waited.

Her hand was trembling, and she knew he noticed it too, but she continued to hold the photo out, and continued to wait for him to speak first. The ball was in his court. She was the one who needed answers now.

Eventually, he moved, his hands unclenching as he reached for the picture, taking it from her fingers. And still, he remained silent. Still, he just stared at the faces in the photograph.

“She was a lovely woman”—he didn’t look up when he said it—“your grandmother. Funny and warm. Irreverent. People liked her. I liked her,” he added.

Violet wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotions that discussing her grandmother would cause. She’d thought she was ready for whatever he threw her way—threats, warnings, challenges, even anger. But what she hadn’t expected was the kind of tenderness she heard in his voice.

She had to remind herself that he was a master at manipulating others, that he’d fooled her before.

“So that is you? In that picture? You were part of the Circle of Seven?”

He let out a derisive laugh. “The Circle of Seven? I haven’t heard that name in years. What a joke. They had no business naming themselves . . . naming us. We weren’t a club or a team, not the way they wanted us to be. We were just a bunch of people with uncommon abilities.”

“Like us?” Violet bit out. “Like the team you won’t let me quit?”

Dr. Lee seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he’d been lost in, as if remembering he wasn’t alone with his own thoughts, that Violet was still there too. “No.” He said it quickly, with a jolt of finality. “Not like you kids at all. We had no idea what we were capable of, what we could do with our abilities. No one did, really. We were floundering then, struggling to figure out how to work together. You kids are better at it. You kids have found a purpose and are using your abilities to help people. To stop killers and solve crimes.”

She nodded, not sure why she was agreeing with him. But in the back of her mind she reminded herself of what he could do. She couldn’t let him manipulate her emotions.

“Does Sara know? Does she know that her mother was in the Circle with you? With my grandmother?”

Whatever advantage Dr. Lee felt like he’d regained slipped as his composure faltered. “Sara’s . . . ? How did you . . .” And then his lips pressed together. “Rafe,” he whispered menacingly.

He didn’t remind her about his warnings, but cold sweat broke out on her upper lip as she waited for him to tell her she’d broken the rules, that her family was in imminent danger.

“Who else have you told?”

She couldn’t lie. There was no going back now. “I know that Krystal’s mom was in the Circle too. I know that it’s not a coincidence that you found all of us. And I know . . .” she said, her eyes flitting nervously to his. “I know that Muriel isn’t dead.” Violet held her breath as she waited for his response, expecting the worst.

But he simply nodded, his expression smoothing, growing solemn. “Yes . . . Sam’s grandmother. I remember when I first heard the news that she was dead. I went to her funeral, you know, just like everyone else did. Officially, we were told it was a car accident. Unofficially, it would have been impossible not to hear the whispers of the others in the Circle; I knew what they believed. And their suspicions were the beginning of the end for us. As trust disintegrated, we began to turn on one another. I tried my best to . . . ease their worries. But my reach only extended so far. Eventually, we had to disband.”

“But why fake her death?” Violet asked, still wanting to know.

She expected him to tell her to mind her own business, that she’d overstepped. On the contrary, he answered as easily as if she’d always been permitted to know such things. As if he’d never threatened her in the first place. Or maybe he was just tired of keeping the lies to himself. “As it turns out, Muriel had learned too much about our organization—about what those in charge were up to: blackmailing industry leaders, corrupting corporations. She was persuaded to relocate, and to never contact anyone in the Circle again.” Violet hated the way he emphasized the word persuaded, and she couldn’t help thinking of old-time thugs with trench coats and broken noses.

He continued, unaware of the way she shuddered inwardly. “She was kept away for years; even her name was changed. But when we discovered that her grandson was special too, we contacted her. When Sam’s parents agreed to our terms . . .” His voice drifted off, and again, Violet got that sick feeling of Sam being haggled over, like a commodity. She waited a long time, while she considered all the things he’d just told her. “Violet—” he started to say, then stopped himself. “I’m not the one you have to worry about,” he said at last, his voice no longer filled with menace. “I’m not in charge; I only do what I’m told. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m trying to help you.” He frowned. “Don’t you get it, your team has done some great things? Look at what you’ve been able to accomplish.”

He sighed, his shoulders falling. “I’m warning you, Violet, the fewer people who know, the better. I’m saying this for your own good.”

“Can I ask why you stayed . . . when everyone else split up? Why did you stay on?”

A wan smile tugged at his mouth. “My father. He was the one who started this whole thing. My ability—whatever you call it, this thing I can do—my father had it too. He had grand ideas about finding a way to use it. About finding others and gathering them together to form some secret society, so we could use our abilities to . . .” His smile spread into a slow and twisted grin. “To take over the world, you could say.”

“And now?” Violet asked, feeling uneasy, like she already knew too much.

Dr. Lee sighed. “Now he’s dead. Now things have changed and it’s a different organization. I’d like to think that those changes are all for the better.”

She was cautious with her next question, not sure she was ready to hear the truth. “Would they have hurt my family or relocated me, the way they did Muriel? If I hadn’t stayed on the team like I was warned?”

Dr. Lee was quiet, that same kind of long pause that made her think she might not like what she heard. “I can’t answer that, Violet. I don’t know everything.”

She’d read enough of her grandmother’s journals to know that if he’d wanted her to feel calm, she would have. But he didn’t. She knew because of the way her pulse raced, and how her stomach twisted in agonizing knots, and the chill that shivered over her skin.

“Go home, Violet,” he said at last, surprising her by handing the photograph back to her. “Just”—he shook his head, turning to unlock his car—“go home.”



After her meeting with Dr. Lee, Violet continued to turn the information over in her mind until she realized it didn’t really matter. He’d told her all he was going to . . . revealing half-truths and doling out vague advice.

Violet wished her grandmother could have lived long enough to know the truth: that Muriel hadn’t died after all.

In her bedroom, she set her purse down, and noticed the flyer Sam had given her poking out from beneath it, right where she’d left it on her dresser. She pulled it out and examined it, momentarily forgetting all about Dr. Lee and the Circle of Seven.

The night of the concert, Violet had lain awake for several hours, thinking she must have missed something crucial, some bit of information that would link the band to the girl. She felt as if she had all the right information—all the pieces—she just couldn’t make them fit.

The brimstone cross.

The band . . . Safe Word.

Veronica Bowman.

Even the missing echo seemed to taunt her, despite knowing the reason for its absence.

But there wasn’t much she could do, at least not from the solitude of her bedroom, about the girl or her brother, so she decided to go online, to get as much information as she could about the cross and the band.

When she typed brimstone cross into Google, the first entries that popped up referred to its symbolism in satanism, just as Sara had mentioned. There were plenty of images to scroll through—drawings, jewelry, tattoos. But nothing more than what she already knew.

When she’d finished reading through the articles she could find, she typed in the name of the band, Safe Word. This search was harder, and had to be revised several times, since safe word was a bondage term, and brought up hundreds of images, including guys in leather masks, handcuffs, and whips.

When she added the term Seattle band to the search, she found what she’d been looking for.

There were Facebook and MySpace pages, and YouTube videos. She clicked on the videos, and immediately realized she was watching the right guys. This was the same band she’d seen at the club the other night. The same group with the brimstone cross on their drums.

She watched each video closely, trying to search for anything that might tie them to Veronica or her death. She searched for the girl during the crowd shots, pausing and going back and rewatching them as she studied each face.

It took her close to an hour to watch all five of the official videos that were posted, and another two hours to go through the fan-posted ones.

When she finished, she felt like she was no closer to an answer than when she’d started.

She clicked over to their Facebook page.

It was the first post on their Wall that made her stop, her fingers hovering over her mouse.

They were playing again. Tomorrow night in Tacoma at another all-ages club.

The decision was easy: She was going. And she was taking someone with her, although not Rafe or Sam. This time she’d be taking someone from a different team.

When the phone was picked up on the other end, Violet grinned. “Hey, remember when you said you wanted to be my sidekick?”



Violet tugged at her black shirt, admiring the hot-pink skull that dripped down the front of it. It wasn’t bad to look at, but it stretched too tight across her chest, like she was wearing a child’s size version. “We look ridiculous, Chels.”

“Are you kidding me? We look awesome! I might just make this my regular style.” She stood behind Violet at the mirror, and Violet glanced back at her, appraising Chelsea’s black eyeliner and combat boots. Somehow Chelsea managed to make the look work, and her toned legs looked hot in the fishnet tights, even if her skirt was entirely too short. The leather bands on her wrists were a nice touch too.

Violet looked back at herself, studying the makeup Chelsea had painstakingly applied on her to go with the outfit.

Smoky eyes, Chelsea had called them.

Whore-y eyes, Violet had joked, staring at the raccoon effect Chelsea had created.

“Besides, we can’t just walk in there in our regular clothes . . . we need to try and blend. Otherwise everyone’ll know we’re there for clues,” Chelsea countered.

“Clues?” Violet asked, unclasping the spiderweb necklace, deciding it was a bit much. “This isn’t an episode of Scooby-Doo. We’re not there to unmask the ghost of Old Man Wheezer or find out who’s haunting the abandoned amusement park. This is serious.”

Chelsea puckered her black lips, her reflection staring back at Violet indignantly. “And I’m taking it seriously. Dude, stop worrying. I’ve got this.”

“I hope you’re right. Besides, I doubt we’ll turn up anything anyway. I just didn’t want to go alone.”

Chelsea turned on the chunky heel of her boot, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah . . . about that . . .”

Violet frowned, not liking her friend’s tone, or the implication that she was withholding something. “About what, Chels?”

“That thing about not wanting to go alone . . .” The end of her sentence lilted up, almost as if she were afraid to finish it.

Violet’s face flushed and she could feel her cheeks turning red. “Who? Who did you tell? Did you invite someone to come with us?”

Chelsea bit her lip, wincing dramatically. “Well . . . yes and no. I mean, yes, I told someone. And, no, I didn’t, technically, invite him.” She grimaced as she rushed through her last words. “But he is coming. He insisted.”

Violet threw her hands in the air. “Oh my god, spit it out already! Who then?”

“Rafe,” Chelsea admitted guiltily. “It wasn’t my fault really. I thought . . . since he knew . . . it was no big deal. So I was telling him about the band, and he got all weird about it, and asked me how I knew about them. Then he made me tell him when we were going, and he . . .” She lifted her shoulders, trying to look innocent, but looking anything but. “He invited himself.”

“Geez, Chels,” Violet groaned. So much for her plan of making Chelsea her sidekick, she silently mocked herself. “I knew you liked him, but I thought you got that I didn’t want anyone else to know. That was kinda the point here.”

Chelsea sighed, an overly loud and theatrical sound. “Yeah, well, I don’t think it matters whether I like him or not,” Chelsea said, her expression turning momentarily serious. She didn’t look accusatory, or even dejected, just matter-of-fact when she said it. “I think we both know who Rafe likes.”

Violet blinked as she faced her friend, wondering how she’d known. She wanted to deny what she knew Chelsea was saying—to say that she hadn’t noticed Rafe’s feelings toward her—but somehow she couldn’t muster up the lie, no matter how hard she tried. She’d worked too hard to be honest with Chelsea.

Before she could come up with anything, there was a knocking at her bedroom door, three quick raps that Violet would recognize anywhere. Her eyes widened as she stared at Chelsea.

“Are you kidding me? Jay too?” she asked Chelsea, before turning to the door.

Chelsea made a face as she nodded. “Rafe told him.”



Violet stomped down the front steps that led to her driveway as she glared at the two boys who were waiting for her and Chelsea. “Since when are you two working against me?” She ignored the fact that they were both studying her a little too intently, taking in her tight jeans and even tighter top. She suddenly felt very exposed, ridiculous even. Like she’d dressed up for Halloween when no one else had. “I think I liked it better when you hated each other.”

“We still do,” Rafe quipped, flashing a grin in Jay’s direction. “We’re just trying to keep you from getting yourselves killed. You have no idea if you’ll run into trouble down there.”

“What are you talking about, killed? All we’re doing is going out for a girls’ night!” She draped her arm around Chelsea’s shoulder. “Right, Chels?”

Chelsea ducked out from under Violet’s arm. “Yeah . . . whatever she says.” She wiggled her brows, and her butt, on her way to her car.

“Right . . .” Rafe drawled, not bothering to sound convinced. “And you just happen to be going to see the same band we saw the other night.”

“What, and you think we need you two tagging along in case we get into trouble?” She managed to add a fair amount of cynicism to her voice as she glowered at each of them in turn.

“We think,” Jay said, sounding considerably more reasonable, and far less flip than Rafe, “that it couldn’t hurt to stick together. Especially since we have no idea what we could be walking into.”

Violet shrugged. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s probably no different than the other club.”

“Oh, and you did great down there,” Rafe interrupted. “You practically made a pass at the bouncer.”

“What?” Violet sputtered, as Jay raised an eyebrow at her, begging for an explanation. “I did not! I was just being friendly. Besides, he seemed . . . nice.”

Jay just shook his head as Rafe shot back, “Yeah, I’m sure he was thinking the same thing about you. Such a nice little girl.”

Violet glared at him as Chelsea shouted from over the top of her car. “All right, ladies, stop your bickering and get in. We don’t have all night. Show starts in t-minus-thirty. Don’t wanna be late, do we?”

It wasn’t as far to Tacoma as it had been to Seattle, and they were there in plenty of time. The area was dirtier than the place in Seattle, though. A little scarier, Violet couldn’t help thinking. The crowd out front didn’t seem to be in a huge hurry to get inside, and there was still a short line, but there were also several people who were just milling around, talking and smoking. More than a few homeless people camped out in nearby doorways.

Suddenly Violet wasn’t so sorry that Rafe and Jay had crashed her plans. Maybe a little backup wasn’t such a bad idea.

After they circled the block several times, Chelsea finally managed to squeeze her car into a space that may or may not have been legal, and they made their way past a row of decayed storefronts . . . businesses like nail salons, a liquor store, a place for check cashing and payday loans, and a smoke shop. It had a seedy feel to it, and Violet grew jumpier and less confident about her decision to be here, with each step she took.

Chelsea, on the other hand, grew bolder and more confident, as if the clothing itself had infused her with a new jolt of courage. “What d’ya think we’ll find? You think the killer will be there? You think someone in the band knows something?” Her voice dropped as she hooked her arm through Violet’s. “What do you do when you find them?” And then her eyes widened as a new possibility dawned on her. “You don’t carry a gun, do you? Can you . . . arrest someone?”

Violet shoved her, laughing now. “Of course I can’t. I’m not a cop, Chels. I call the police, just like anyone else.”

Jay scoffed. “Yeah, because that’s what you always do, right, Vi? You’d never go after a killer on your own.”

He was right of course. She had been foolish enough to chase echoes—or imprints rather—before. And she probably would be again. No matter how hard Dr. Lee had tried, no matter how many warnings Sara had given her, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“You’ve done that?” Chelsea gasped, but it wasn’t the kind of gasp that said she was shocked and appalled. It was more like she was impressed. Like she had a newfound respect for her friend.

“Not on purpose,” Violet answered, hoping to defuse the situation . . . and the attention.

When they reached the entrance, Violet fished out her ID and her hand was stamped. Since the person at the door had two different kinds of stamps, Violet guessed that hers was the one that marked her as underage, limiting her selections at the bar. Fair enough, she realized. It wasn’t like she’d been planning on drinking anyway.

Before they went in, Jay stopped her, his hand firm and warm as it closed over hers, pulling her back a step. The worry in his face drew her back another.

“What?” she asked.

“Just . . . don’t do anything stupid, ’kay, Vi?”

She looked at him, at his serious expression. At the T-shirt he wore that wasn’t black and the jeans that weren’t ripped or held up at his waist with a spiked belt. He didn’t belong in a place like this or, really, with a girl like her, one who was always dragging him into sticky situations. Yet here he was. And the creases etched across his forehead said it all.

She smiled. “Don’t be an ass-hat.” But her words were quiet and reassuring, and she leaned up to press the lightest kiss against his lips as she stared into his eyes. “That’s why you’re here, right? To keep me out of trouble.”

He shook his head, surrendering to the fact that she wasn’t going to listen to him, no matter how hard he tried. And then he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and dragged her through the door. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

Inside, the music was already playing, and Violet recognized the song from the other night—the same opening band.

“Not really what I expected,” Chelsea shouted as she surveyed the tall ceilings and the wide-open space that lacked any real sense of décor. It had a cold, industrial feel, with exposed metal heating ducts and concrete walls that were probably some shade of gray or tan or taupe when the lights were on. Right now, however, everything was black, except when the strobe lights flashed.

Violet shrugged. It was exactly what she’d expected, almost the same feel as the place in Seattle she’d been to just days earlier with Sam and Rafe. Even the people were the same, lots of steel spikes and chains, leather, tattoos, and piercings and gauges of all sizes and shapes. It was like a heavy metal rainbow.

“Now what?” Jay asked, staying at Violet’s other arm.

Violet looked around, feeling as helpless as she had the other night. She supposed she’d been hoping for an easy, obvious answer, but there wasn’t one. “Let’s get something to drink.”

They pushed and shoved and elbowed their way to the bar, where they ordered three Cokes and a root beer. Not surprisingly, it was Chelsea who had to be different, and she drew a strange look from the bartender.

“I’m not sure I have that,” he said when she made her request.

Cocking her head, she placed her hands on her hips. “Well, you should probably start looking then, shouldn’t you?” It sounded like a command when she said it.

The man behind the bar had hair that was long and curly and would have been almost like Violet’s if it weren’t so wild and unkempt, and if it wasn’t so bushy and dyed to a deep shade of ebony. But it was his eyebrows that made Violet pause, holding her interest. His actual eyebrows were fine—normal, from what she could see of them—but black ink had been tattooed over them, and they’d been remade so that when the ink reached the center of them it flared upward, giving the man a permanent scowl. Making him look angry, even when he laughed. Which he did, howling at Chelsea’s outrageous statement. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving her a mock salute and turning to go find her some root beer.

“Root beer, huh?” The guy who’d asked Chelsea the question was cute enough. He wore a beanie and nervously used his tongue to toy with the ring in his lip as he leaned against the bar beside her.

Chelsea turned away from the bartender to face the boy, who was probably about their age.

She lifted a shoulder, looking at him, bored. “Mind your own business, will ya? Besides, I’m here with someone.”

The boy shot upright and glanced uncomfortably toward Rafe, holding his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. No harm in trying, right?”

Rafe didn’t correct the misunderstanding; he just shrugged and threw a bill down as the bartender set a glass down in front of Chelsea. “That’s three Cokes and one root beer.”

“See?” Chelsea grinned back at the bartender, with his perma-scowl. She was no longer demanding, but practically giddy instead. “I knew you had some hiding back there.”

Violet rolled her eyes as she followed Chelsea, who’d taken the lead, through the crowd. Chelsea knew how to use her new look to draw attention, which was exactly the opposite of what you’d want in a sidekick—someone whose job by definition was to help the hero go unnoticed. Already more than a few heads were turning to watch her short skirt as it hiked higher and higher up her thighs.

Perfect.

“Hey, why do you think that guy automatically assumed Chelsea was with Rafe? Why couldn’t she’ve been with me?” Jay asked as they cut a path through the crowd.

Violet glared at him over her shoulder, but then turned ahead again, concentrating on where she was going, trying not to spill her drink as she was pushed from both sides. “Have you seen yourself? You don’t exactly look like her type. At least not tonight,” she teased. And she wasn’t lying. Jay hadn’t dressed for the occasion, not the way she and Chelsea had. Not the way Rafe pretty much always did. Jay was just Jay. If his T-shirt and jeans were good enough for school, they were good enough for this place.

Fine by her. She liked his T-shirt and jeans.

“Besides, are you sayin’ you want to be with Chelsea?” she asked slowly, mockingly.

“Are you kidding? Have you looked in a mirror tonight?” He leaned down, his words tickling her ear. “Have I mentioned how hot you look all death-metaled out? I kinda like the new Violet.”

“Yeah, well don’t get too used to this Violet,” she shot back at him. “Because this Violet could totally kick your ass.”

Jay’s arm snaked around her waist, drawing her to a stop. “Yeah, well maybe I like it rough.”

Violet giggled as she struggled out of his grasp. “Oh my god, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

They stopped at a long tall table where Chelsea had managed to squeeze in, after shouldering her way through a minuscule opening, giving them just enough space so they could set down their drinks.

Violet glanced around, but it was Jay who asked, “Now what?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” she admitted. “Maybe we should split up and scope things out.” It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best she could come up with. Besides, the band—Safe Word—was just getting started, and Violet was dying to hear them play. Now that she recognized their music—after listening to it for hours on end—she had a new appreciation for them. She felt a little like a groupie, wanting to get a better look at them, even as she told herself it was only to see if she’d missed something the other night.

“I’ll stay here,” Chelsea announced. “To guard the table.”

Violet followed Chelsea’s gaze, which had landed on a guy standing near the other end of the lengthy table, and Violet knew exactly what Chelsea planned to “guard.”

“Awesome plan, Chels.” Violet set her glass down and left the rest of them there to decide where they would go, as she beelined toward the stage.





FINDERS KEEPERS


HE STEPPED INTO THE CLUB AND FELT THE MUSIC even before he heard it, the way he always did. The way any good musician would.

Kisha was at his side, calmer now that he’d managed to scrape a little extra cash together for her . . . to medicate her for the night. She hadn’t yet noticed his guitar was missing.

Didn’t matter, though. That dream was dead. He was making new dreams now, forging a new life for himself. Being a rock star no longer mattered.

He was going to be a legend. A god.

Kisha squeezed his arm, whether from the excitement at being out or from the euphoria of her fix, he wasn’t sure, but he was glad to have her back. “This is great!” she squealed enthusiastically. “I love this band!”

He glared up at the stage, to where they were playing, grating out the metal sounds of a song he used to love too. One he’d played for his new family.

“Look,” Kisha gushed as she dragged him closer to the stage. “He sees you.” She pointed indiscreetly to the lead vocalist, who clutched the microphone to his mouth, his eyes falling on Evan in the crowd below. His expression never changed, but Evan could feel the subtle shift in his eyes as he glanced . . . what? Nervously? Uneasily? Toward the guitar player beside him.

The new guy. He turned to Kisha, ignoring everyone on the stage now. He didn’t need them or their insignificant band.

What he needed was a girl. For Colton.

“I’ll be right back,” he shouted, straining to be heard above the riffs from the stage and the screams of the crowd around him. “Stay here.”

Kisha just nodded, her attention already fixated on the band as she swayed, her eyes glittering with delight.



When he first saw the girl he knew two distinct things about her.

First, that she didn’t belong in a place like this. Even as far as all-ages clubs went, this one was rough and dirty and seamy. The people who ran it rarely paid attention to the teens who passed through their doors, so even though the bartender wouldn’t serve minors, it was easy to sneak in booze. And even easier to score if you needed something stronger. It was his kind of place, but definitely not hers.

He could tell the girl had tried to fit in though. That her makeup was heavier than she was probably used to, and that she’d gone for the death metal vibe of the club with her short black skirt and fishnet tights, and a T-shirt with a cat—like Hello Kitty—but with a skull head instead. He’d seen plenty of suburban kids trying to fit in by shopping at Hot Topic, and this girl was no different from the rest.

The second thing he noticed about her was less obvious, but he’d recognized it anyway. It was something about the way she carried herself, despite being from the suburbs. Something about the way he’d seen her glare at the boys she caught watching her, and the way she lifted her shoulder in an I-don’t-give-a-f*ck shrug. This girl was bold, even though she was a fish out of water.

He knew right away that this was Colton’s girl.

She wasn’t alone, though. She was with a friend—a pretty girl with curls who was just as out of place as she was, although much less brash about it. The curly-haired girl looked apologetic, and even grimaced as they squeezed through the crowd, trying not to spill their drinks—sodas most likely, since these didn’t look like the kind of girls who brought their own flasks. There was another kid too, a boy who hadn’t bothered trying, and gave off an Abercrombie vibe that didn’t generally sit well among the metalhead crowd. He practically hovered over the curly-haired girl.

The other guy, the dark-haired one who trailed in their wake, was never really close enough to be with them, but not so far away that he could be overlooked either. Unlike the others, this guy could easily blend in with the crowd at this club.

Evan watched the girl as the song came to an end, as the audience blew up, shrieking with applause, and he forced himself not to picture Kisha among them, cheering for the band that had cut out his heart.

When the next song started, he saw the curly-haired girl slip away from the others at their table, and then Abercrombie went after her, disappearing into the mosh pit just as quickly as she had. The other guy left too, but went in the opposite direction, and he wondered if he was ever really with them at all.

Didn’t matter, really. Because they’d just given him a golden opportunity. One he was prepared for, he thought, as he wound his way toward the table, his fingers toying with the tiny plastic bag in his pocket.

He had a chance now. To get to her.

Colton’s girl.