Chapter 3
VIOLET SAT IN HER USUAL SPOT. THE SAME CHAIR she sat in every Monday afternoon. She listened to the ticking of the clock as she tapped the toe of each shoe to its rhythm. First one foot, then the other, then the first one again. She leaned forward and watched them, as if this were the most fascinating piece of choreography she’d ever laid eyes on.
It wasn’t. In fact, she was bored to tears, mentally counting down the minutes until her session with Dr. Lee would finally come to an end and she’d be put out of this particular brand of misery.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .
Is it possible to actually die of boredom? Violet wondered, as she fixated on the toes of her sneakers, forcing her gaze to remain down. But she could feel the good doctor looking at her. Watching her. Waiting for her to grow tired of this latest delay tactic.
Last month, during one of her sessions, she’d told him she had to use the restroom, and she stayed in there for almost the entire hour—longer than anyone should ever have to stay in a bathroom. He’d seen through her little ruse, of course, and at her next visit he told her, even before she’d made it out of the waiting room and had the chance to ask, that his restroom was “out of order.” She hadn’t tried that trick again.
She sighed as softly as she could. Her shoulders were starting to ache from hunching forward and she wanted to stretch them, just a little.
She waited for as long as she could, until the crick in her neck was screaming for relief, and then she decided to take a chance. She arched her back, rolling her neck ever so slightly from side to side, relishing the stretch in her sore muscles. Her mistake had been in miscalculating Dr. Lee’s position. In not realizing that he’d shifted in his chair, so he was leaning toward her, and without meaning to, she accidentally made eye contact. It was fleeting, and Violet looked away again just as quickly as possible, but it was too late. Her reprieve had come to a bitter end.
She sagged, slouching back in her chair, not willing to admit how badly her back had been aching. “Fine,” she told him, glancing at the clock. “We only have five minutes left anyway. Might as well get this over with.”
Dr. Lee pressed his fingertips together, the way he always seemed to do when he was thinking about what he wanted to say. After a moment, he asked, “I take it you’re sleeping better?”
Violet shrugged. “I sleep enough.” But then she realized that her lie would get her nowhere; she needed him to give her another prescription. Her shoulders fell as she admitted, “But I could use a refill.” She searched his face, looking for any sign that he was satisfied to have something she needed.
If he did, his smugness didn’t show. “And what about echoes this week?” His bushy brows raised, same as always. He was like the clock in that regard—predictable. Tick-tick-ticking away.
She shrugged, a non-answer, knowing what was coming next: He reached up and tapped his lips. “Did you run across anything? Do you still feel like you have your impulses under control?”
Violet tapped her feet again. She knew what he wanted to hear. That she was doing great. That everything had changed since she’d met him.
Thanks to you, Dr. Lee, those pesky echoes never bother me at all. You’re my hero! Or something to that effect.
Problem was, it was true . . . more or less. Dr. Lee was the one who’d made her ability bearable. He’d taught her the breathing techniques and meditation and had even used hypnosis, all of which helped her not just to overcome the fog of depression and unease and just plain desolation that had once developed in the wake of discovering a body. That used to haunt her, making her drift through her days, as if she were a shell of her real self . . . until the body that was plaguing her was buried at last.
Until it found peace.
But now . . .
Now she felt something different. There was still a certain cloudiness, a sense of being weighed upon by the dead. But it was nothing like she used to experience. Nothing like before she’d met Dr. Lee.
And together with Sara, they’d taught her the importance of working as a team. Of not wandering into dangerous territory—even when the pull of an echo was strong—without waiting for backup.
Under any other circumstances, in any other lifetime, she would have praised him for that. Instead, she shrugged again, trying to look as taciturn as possible. “I can handle myself” was all she said.
“Good. That’s good to hear,” he said, smiling as if she’d just led a cheer in his honor. “I guess that’s about it.” He got up to go to his desk and Violet waited as he slid open the locked drawer where he kept his prescription pad. “Oh, and Violet? One more thing.”
“Yeah?” she said absently.
“How was school? You started today, right?”
Violet cringed. She wanted nothing more than to get this appointment over with and get out of here, but there was something in the way he asked the question, in the way he’d kept his back to her as he’d posed it. “Fine. Why?”
He closed the drawer, sliding the key in the lock methodically, as if this were the most important task he’d ever taken on. And then he turned back around, his eyes boring into her. “I just wondered how it was having Rafe and Gemma there.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did Violet shook her head. “Was it you? Are you the reason they’re at my school?”
When he nodded, Violet gripped the seat of her chair, her fingers digging into the upholstery. Her voice was filled with quiet disbelief. “But . . . why?”
“Because, Violet. You’re not keeping up your end.” His lips parted and he was no longer the benevolent psychiatrist he pretended to be here in his office. “Being part of the team isn’t just about coming to your scheduled appointments and showing up at the Center when Sara calls you. I expect you to commit to this. Your team needs you.” He held out the prescription for sleeping pills to her, and for a moment she just stared at it. Inside, she was shaking, and it took a moment to register that she was shaking on the outside as well. When she reached out to take the paper from him, her hands trembled violently.
But when their fingers brushed, his voice softened. “And whether you believe it or not, you need them too. Having Rafe and Gemma at your school is just another part of being on the team. It’s our way of making sure you’re okay.”
She wasn’t sure if it was his tone or his touch, or whether she was lapsing into some sort of shock, but she could practically feel the concern radiating from him, and it made her believe what he said as acceptance washed over her. His words made sense to her.
He was right, of course. She was being stubborn to believe otherwise. They were her team, and she knew they only wanted what was best for her. She nodded back at him, letting his conviction calm her.
He placed his hand on her elbow, and he patiently led her to the door.
“I’ll see you next week,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything before then. . . .” It was the same thing he’d said every time since the first time she’d come to see him.
She didn’t have to respond because she was already in the waiting room, the door closing behind her.
Violet tried to shake off the feeling that she’d been played.
Sitting in her car in her driveway, parked far from Dr. Lee’s office, she couldn’t remember why she’d let him convince her it was okay for Gemma and Rafe to be spying on her at her own school.
It seemed they were there to stay. Whether she liked it or not. And she most definitely did not.
Chelsea didn’t seem to mind though. It had been sort of weird to watch her friend in the halls between classes, focusing so much energy on Rafe. Watching as she held one-sided conversations with the less-than-chatty loner and then laughed giddily at his nonexistent jokes as if he’d just charmed the pants off her. It was even weirder though as, by the end of the day, Chelsea seemed to have drawn Rafe out of his shell. Rafe, who preferred to brood and be left alone. Rafe, who hated pretty much everyone.
Violet actually saw him smile at Chelsea. It was small, practically invisible unless you were looking for it, and maybe Violet shouldn’t have been looking at all. But she had been . . . and she’d seen it.
The barest flash of teeth, the stark glint of amusement almost hidden behind his thoughtful blue eyes.
She’d turned away then, ignoring the pang, as the stone that had been there all day settled more heavily in her gut. She shouldn’t care.
So what did she feel? she wondered. Certainly not the warm sense of acceptance she’d felt less than an hour ago, when Dr. Lee had assured her it was all for the best. She glanced at the brand-new bottle of pills she’d picked up from the pharmacy on her way home, wondering if Dr. Lee had somehow managed to drug her while she was at his office.
Whatever the sensation had been, it had worn off now.
She stepped outside, relishing the fact that although it was getting late, summer temperatures still lingered and she didn’t need a jacket just yet. As it grew dusky, the sky was still tinged at the edges with fiery pinks and oranges that found their way up from the edge of the world, clinging to the undersides of the few clouds she could see, making them look like fat, sticky mounds of cotton candy.
“Vi?” She heard her mom call out to her as she slipped through the front door, and even though she’d meant to skulk up to her room and hide, she drew up short, knowing her mom would want to hear all about her first day back at school.
When she came into the family room, she saw her mother curled up on the sofa. “I made you some tea.” She held her own cup, and Violet tried to recall a time when her mom wasn’t drinking hot tea . . . even during the most sweltering days of summer. “It’ll help you relax.” Her mom smiled. “Maybe you’ll even sleep better tonight.”
“That must be some magical tea,” Violet said, a devilish grin finding her lips as she leaned her shoulder against the wall. She watched her mom pour another cup and slide it across the coffee table toward her, inviting her to sit.
“Not magical, just chamomile,” she answered, and Violet studied her mom’s fingernails, the polish beginning to chip and peel. Violet curled her fingers, hiding her own bare nails as she wondered if her mom—or anyone else—had noticed that she hadn’t painted them since her abduction. Since Caine had painted them for her. “And peppermint. It’s good for your sinuses.”
Violet smiled at her mother, shoving away from the wall and joining her on the couch. “My sinuses are just fine, thank you very much.” She picked up the cup and inhaled the steam coming up from it, infused with the scent of mint and the sweet smell of chamomile leaves. She leaned back, putting the cup to her lips and sipping. She didn’t tell her mom that she’d sleep fine tonight, that she had something stronger than tea to tide her over.
“So?”
“It’s good. I’m sure I’ll sleep great,” Violet told her instead.
Her mom scoffed, but her voice was determined. “Not that. School. How was it?”
“Oh,” Violet breathed. “Good.” But she knew what her mom really wanted to hear, so she said it. “It was good to be back.”
She saw the relief—the anxiety her mother had been shouldering—melt away in an instant with that simple statement.
“Rafe was there,” Violet added, trying to make it sound like an afterthought. Like something that didn’t really matter to her one way or the other. “He and Gemma are going to White River now.” She shrugged nonchalantly, hoping she was convincing.
She still felt weird talking about them with her mom. It was bad enough that Violet had attracted the attention of a serial killer, but her mom had wanted her to quit the Center even before then.
Afterward, though, her mom’s opinion had changed.
Afterward, her mom had left the choice up to Violet. All because it had been people from the Center who’d led the police to where the killer had been holding Violet. All because, in the end, they’d been the ones to find her.
Her mom lowered her cup, settling it on top of her lap as she eyed Violet, that burden returning. “Really? They’re at your school? As students?”
Violet nodded, wishing she couldn’t hear the air of disapproval in her mother’s words, echoing her own doubts.
“And you don’t find that . . . odd?”
She shrugged again, repeating the word she’d said far too many times in the past few months. “It’s fine.” It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s just fine. She was starting to hate that word.
“What about Jay? What did he think about Rafe being there?”
This time it was Violet’s turn to scoff, to make light of the matter, but she couldn’t manage to make it as believable as she’d wanted. Maybe because she didn’t believe it herself. “Why would he care?” she asked, taking a too-large gulp from her cup and wishing there was something stronger than just tea in there. She watched her mom’s eyebrows inch up meaningfully. “Mom,” she complained as if her mother had actually accused her of something. “We’re just friends. Jay knows that.”
But she could see her mom wasn’t buying it.
She waited for her mom to say something else. But she didn’t, and they just sat there, silently assessing what the other might be thinking.
Finally Violet got up to go to her room. As she set her teacup down, her mom perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, as if it were a natural transition in their awkward conversation. Her face twisted into a delighted grin. “I left something for you. On your bed.”
Cocking her head suspiciously, Violet asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise . . .” her mom started, but Violet knew she would. Her mom hated keeping secrets almost as much as Violet hated surprises. “But I found a box of Grandma Louise’s things in the attic this afternoon. I thought you might want to look through it.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Violet’s chest squeezed. She hadn’t thought of her grandmother in months . . . far, far too long. She wished she’d had more time with her grandmother before she’d died, longer to get to know her, to swap stories about their shared ability, the one Violet had inherited from her.
Suddenly grateful for the change in atmosphere, and subject, Violet sighed, “Thanks, Mom.”
Her mom shrugged, but Violet could see how pleased she was with herself. And suddenly Violet couldn’t wait to get to her room.
Staring into the musty-smelling box, Violet frowned. She glanced at all the knickknacks, a box filled with treasures that looked a lot like junk. Things that her grandmother had once held dear enough to save, to store away.
She reached in reverently, her fingers brushing over a collection that included a book with a tattered cover, its binding nearly threadbare; a shoebox filled with photos and newspaper clippings and letters; a perfume bottle, mostly empty; and a small ivory box with delicate carvings.
Violet reached for the carved box and drew it out, holding her breath as she ran her fingers over it. It felt both delicate and solid, and Violet worried she might break something that her grandmother had once considered special. Important.
She studied the etchings engraved on its lid, a labyrinth of people, trees, and birds, each intricate and carefully crafted. She flipped it over, her breath catching as she recognized the mechanism underneath it.
It was a music box. A windup music box.
Violet’s heart sped up as she wondered . . .
. . . if it were even possible that this music box and her music box—the one in her head—could possibly play the same tune. She knew there was only one way to find out.
She wavered for only a moment before winding the small silver dial, tightening the springs inside that would unleash the song within. Still, she didn’t lift the lid right away. She paused, the air around her growing thick with anticipation, her own song buzzing in her ears as her fingers froze above it.
And then she opened it . . . and the first notes played.
Soft and tinkling, the sound filled her room, bleeding into the imprint that followed her everywhere, that filled her every waking—and sleeping—thought.
The two weren’t a match.
She recognized the tune, though. She’d heard it before, the soft lilting of notes. Every child in the world would probably recognize that song.
Brahms Lullaby.
Violet could remember the song. She recalled hearing her grandmother hum it to her when she was small. She listened, letting the lullaby overtake the sound of her own imprint as she savored the bittersweet memories.
When the song ended, Violet closed the lid again, setting the box aside.
She began removing item by item, inspecting each one and then moving on to the next. It was fascinating to explore her grandmother’s life, all packed into one place.
When she reached the bottom, she realized it was filled with books. She plucked one of them out and flipped through its pages.
No, she realized, they weren’t just books. These were journals. There were at least fifteen of them, Violet counted, maybe more. Her grandmother had been a dedicated journaler, it seemed.
She felt strange just holding the private diaries that had once belonged to her grandmother, let alone contemplating opening one of them, peeking inside its cover.
But she felt like she needed to. Her grandmother was the only other person she’d ever known who could do what she could . . . find the dead.
Tentatively, falteringly, she flipped open the worn cover and looked at the scrawled, handwritten pages. The ink was clear and strong—not faded, as she’d expected it to be after so many years, and if Violet hadn’t known better, she could’ve easily believed that this had been written just yesterday.
June 14, 1960
Ian was there again today and I’m starting to suspect he might like me. I hope so anyway. After school, he waited by Bobby DiMaio’s locker, leaning against it and pretending he wasn’t there just to see me. Pretending that he and Bobby have so much to catch up on, like there aren’t enough hours in the day to say all the things they need to say. But I’m not buying it. It didn’t used to be that way. He never used to wait for Bobby, not until the night Judy and I bumped into him after the game. Now he waits at Bobby’s locker every day, stealing glimpses of me when he thinks I’m not looking. But I see him. And every day when they walk by, he wears a smile that I’m sure is meant for me.
Violet glanced up, her cheeks burning as if she’d just been caught looking through someone’s bedroom window. Like she was some sort of Peeping Tom.
Still, it didn’t stop her from reading the next passage.
June 16, 1960
Bobby wasn’t at school today, but Ian was still waiting anyway. Only this time he didn’t stand at Bobby’s locker, he stood at mine. When he said “Hi, Lu,” my stomach did nervous flips and I was terrified to open my mouth and try to talk, afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer him. How is that possible? How can a boy make me suddenly speechless? He did, though, and I didn’t even care. When he smiles at me, it’s like staring into the face of an angel. He makes me forget about all the things my mother taught me . . . about being good and faithful and pure. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
July 3, 1960
It happened! I can’t believe it happened, but it did. Ian Williams kissed me. Me! I let him, and I even kissed him back. My mother would have a heart attack if she found out. I’d never be allowed to leave the house again. But I’d do it all over. A hundred times over! It was the most amazing, wonderful, beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I know I shouldn’t say things like that. I know what that makes me, but I don’t care. Ian kissed me, and I kissed him back.
Violet covered her mouth, trying not to giggle at the idea of her grandmother—a woman who’d always seemed so . . . so old to Violet—having a crush on a boy.
She couldn’t get over how old-fashioned it all was, the notion that a girl wouldn’t be allowed to kiss a boy.
Violet flipped through the pages, skimming the entries.
August 28, 1960
We have to sneak around to see each other now. Mother says Ian’s not the right kind of boy for me, that he’s not good enough. I don’t know what makes us any better than him since Daddy works at the factory, same as Ian’s father, but that’s what she says. I think she expected me to go to college and find a husband, not to marry a local boy who will likely end up at the factory too. I don’t care though. I want to be with Ian. Only Ian. Besides, I can still go to college—Ian will wait for me. Who knows, maybe he’ll go to college too. Or maybe neither of us will. Maybe we’ll run away and get married before our parents can stop us. Mrs. Ian Williams. Mrs. Louise Williams.
September 6, 1960
Ian’s away with his father for the week. Hunting season started and his daddy decided he was old enough to go with the rest of the men. I miss the smell of him. I miss his lips and his strong arms. I miss him.
September 13, 1960
I tried not to be alarmed when I saw him, but I knew it the moment he came strutting down the hall at school on Monday morning—he’d killed something. I hadn’t considered what his hunting trip might mean beyond the two of us being separated for an entire week. I hadn’t thought about the consequences of him carrying a gun. He may as well have come to school still wearing his bloodied hunting gear—I could see it just as clearly. More so maybe. It was revolting. The smell he was carrying was sickly and sweet, like the decayed vegetation in my mother’s garden at the end of the season. Like rotting, rancid, moldering fruits. Except that I was the only one who noticed it. I was the only one who’d known what he’d done to earn the mark he now wore. That he would always wear.
September 15, 1960
I’ve been avoiding Ian for two days, but I know he knows something’s wrong. How do I tell him that it’s not his fault . . . not really? I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible, it comes off him in waves, like heat. Holding my breath only made me dizzy, but at least I could be with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. Until I let him kiss me. That was when I tasted it. It was on his lips, and then it was on mine. I actually gagged before I could push him away. I told him I had to go, that I had to catch my bus, and then I ran away. I can’t avoid him forever, can I?
September 16, 1960
I’ve decided to tell him. I’m afraid. I haven’t told anyone since I was a little girl, before I knew it was something to be ashamed of, when my parents made it clear that I was never to talk about it again. That, like my great-grandmother and my aunt Claire (who they pretend doesn’t exist), I’m touched. Touched. I know what they mean when they say that. They mean crazy. It used to bother me that they felt that way about me, but I’ve learned to hide the things I see and hear and smell from them. I’ve learned not to tell them about the dead animals I sense. But now, with Ian, I feel like he needs to know, otherwise he’ll wonder why I’ve backed away from him. Maybe together we can figure this out. Maybe we can find a way to change it. Or at least to live with it.
Violet sat up, her heart racing despite the fact that she was reading about events that had unfolded over fifty years ago. She no longer felt guilty about reading her grandmother’s private thoughts; she had to find out what had happened next.
September 20, 1960
It was a mistake. I knew it almost immediately. I could see it in his eyes, the way the spark that was always there, just for me, flickered and then faded away, dying completely. His expression went blank as I tried to explain—about the bodies I could find, about the colors I would see and the smells I would smell. About the smell I could smell on him. No, he didn’t go blank exactly—he went cold. Cold as ice. I wanted to go back in time, to do it over and not say anything, but it was too late. I’d already said the words. It’s been three days now and I haven’t seen him once. Not at school, not at the river where we used to meet in secret, and not at his house when I ride my bike past. Now he’s the one avoiding me.
September 23, 1960
The whispers follow me everywhere, even into the stalls of the girls’ room when I think I’m alone, hiding, trying to find some peace and quiet. But there is no peace for me. Everyone knows now. Everyone at school believes the same things my parents do, the same thing that Ian does. That I’m touched.
October 11, 1960
My mother says we’re moving again. My own father no longer speaks to me. He can’t even look me in the eye. I know he’ll get over it, but for now, when I feel like I need my parents the most, the frosty look that passes over his face whenever I enter the room cuts worse than any blade ever could. My mother’s not much better. She resents me and has a hard time hiding it. I’d rather have the silent treatment from her than listen to her offhanded comments about the friends she’ll be leaving behind and the church groups she’ll miss when we’re gone. As if I haven’t lost anything.
I’ve lost everything.
The first diary entries ended there, the rest of the pages in the book Violet was holding were blank, as if her grandmother had given up on her journal when she’d given up her secret. Violet tried to imagine what that must have been like for her, tried to reconcile the grandmother she knew—the one with quick-smiling eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green—with the lonely girl in the pages of the diary. She must have been, what, fifteen . . . sixteen at the time? Young. And with no one to turn to.
Violet had no idea what that would be like; she’d always been able to count on her parents, and her aunt and uncle. She had Jay too.
She set the journal aside and climbed on her bed, bringing the music box with her and setting it on her nightstand. It was pretty, and it reminded her of her grandmother. It reminded her that her life wasn’t so lonely.
She flipped it over and wound the silver key, opening the lid and listening to the sound of her grandmother’s lullaby.
Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel
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