Chapter 4
“DID I MENTION I’M GLAD IT’S FRIDAY?” ROLLING over, Violet tried to ignore the protesting groan of springs whenever either she or Jay moved, making it sound like they were using his bed as a trampoline. She leaned up on her elbows and stared down at him, her lips curving into a lazy smile as she took in his disheveled hair and the uneven grin that met her. “I wish you didn’t have to work tomorrow. You could go to the lake with us.” She’d meant with Chelsea, Jules, and Claire, and probably everyone else from school who would be soaking up these last few days of summer.
Jay reached up and parted Violet’s curls, moving them away from her face so he could study her, the way he always did—gazing into her eyes and making her feel like he could see inside of her, before finally settling on her lips. He looked at them too, making her stomach feel fluttery as her face flushed in anticipation. “You won’t even notice I’m not there,” he teased, his mouth almost to hers. “Did I mention how glad I am you suggested hanging out here tonight instead of at your house?” The low timbre of his voice made Violet’s heart hammer against her chest as she leaned just the tiniest bit closer, so that his breath lingered with hers. “I mean, nothing against your parents, Vi, but this is way better than having your mom follow us around, asking if we need anything every five seconds. She might as well just say she doesn’t want us messing around instead of trying to spy on us all the time.”
Violet smiled back at him, but didn’t disagree with his assessment. She must’ve asked her mom a hundred times to back off . . . just a little. She’d come to terms with the “no bedroom” rule where Jay was concerned, but her mother’s constant hovering had reached the point that they had no space at all when they were at her house. It was impossible to even get through a movie without her mom offering to pop popcorn for them, or scoop them some ice cream, or order pizza, any excuse she could find to check in on the two of them.
“I thought things would get better once I turned seventeen, but I swear it’s gotten worse. Worse than worse. She’s making me feel like a prisoner on suicide watch.”
“What’d you expect, Vi?” he asked, pulling her down so she was nestled against him. The scent of his soap, crisp and fresh, filled her nose as she rested her head against his shoulder. His bed creaked again and Violet wondered what his mom must think. Then she realized that Ann Heaton wasn’t like her mom. She wouldn’t barge in on them, and probably didn’t have her ear pressed against the other side of the door. “After everything that’s happened? Your folks are just worried, that’s all.” His voice rumbled against her ear.
Violet reached up to find his hand at her shoulder. Her fingers danced and laced and moved through his, never settling in one place, and all the while his thumb traced her palm, her wrist, her pulse. She was amazed how such innocent gestures could make her hot and restless. “But that’s the thing. I don’t see how what you and I are—or aren’t—doing has to do with . . . that. . . .” She faltered over the words. It was one thing to be aware of what had happened to her—the abduction, the fact that she’d had to kill the man who’d kidnapped her so she could escape—but it was another altogether to actually talk about it . . . even all these months later. She still struggled with that part. Even now, lying here with Jay, she could hear the constant reminder of what she’d done. “I just don’t see how those two things are related at all. It’s not like you were responsible for what happened to me. They can’t possibly blame you—you weren’t even there.”
Jay’s hand went still, and he stiffened beside her.
“Jay . . .” Violet frowned, squeezing his fingers with hers. “I didn’t . . . you know what I meant.” She peeked up at him. She wasn’t the only one bothered by this subject. Jay still blamed himself for not getting to her house sooner, and her parents felt as if they never should have left her alone in the first place. “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known he was there. No one did.”
She thought of Rafe and Gemma and Krystal, even Sam. None of the members of her team, even with all their special abilities, had been able to predict that the killer was coming after her. None of them had been able to stop it from happening.
He dropped her hand and pulled her close, protectively. “I know,” he sighed. “It’s just . . . I’m sure they feel the same way I do, that they wish you hadn’t had to go through any of that. I’m sure they just want to make sure it never happens again, even if that means they’re a little overprotective.”
Violet decided she was tired of pretending that every nerve in her body wasn’t straining to be closer to him. She rolled on top of him, so that her chest was pressed against his. “And you know what I think?” she asked with a wicked smile as she stared at his lips, thinking how warm and soft they looked. How badly she wanted to taste them. “I think they just want to make sure we don’t do this.” She lowered herself then, letting her mouth softly graze over his as a tremor rocketed along her spine, making her flesh prickle. She drew back, just enough so she could speak. “I gotta say, though, I kinda want to.”
His breath gusted against her lips as he grinned back at her, pulling her down so she was no longer teasing, tempting him. When her mouth parted for him, her pulse exploded, and suddenly she was aware of nothing—not the music-box imprint or the creaking of the bedsprings or her looming curfew. All she cared about was Jay, and the fact that their hearts were beating in time, and she was kissing him. She just wanted to keep kissing him.
His lips were soft and salty and tasted like shelter from the storm that raged inside her. His unintelligible words, as he whispered them against her mouth, were like a melody all their own, drowning out all else.
She pressed herself closer . . . as close as she could get. In Jay’s arms, she felt alive. And free.
At peace.
Violet squinted against the sun that came in through her windshield as she reached the stop sign, and then she turned, if for no other reason than to avoid the glare. She knew the wrong turn would delay her arrival even more, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wasn’t lost or anything—she knew exactly where she was—yet she was in no hurry to get to her destination.
She was already late, there was no changing that fact now.
Still, she felt bad she wasn’t making more of an effort to meet them on time. It wasn’t their fault her head was ringing. Literally.
She continued to drive like that—with no real plan in mind—turning, and turning again, winding along side roads, and then back roads, until she could see glimpses of the lake between the houses lined up along the opposite side of the street. Turning up the radio, she was able to drown out the other song that was in the car with her, the one she wasn’t in the mood to listen to.
It wasn’t until she felt the familiar quivering beneath her skin that she realized she hadn’t been driving without a purpose after all. That at some point, her course had begun to mean something . . . at least to her.
She didn’t have to distinguish an echo to recognize its presence. And it didn’t take more than a second to realize it wasn’t the one she carried with her.
These vibrations reached into the center of her body and tugged at her, telling her there was a body out there . . . calling to her.
She came to a fork in the road, one she’d passed before—dozens, maybe hundreds of times—one she’d never even considered before this very moment. Normally, she would veer right, following the main road as it continued, eventually winding away from the lake and heading into town.
But this time she pulled her steering wheel in the other direction, to the left. It was just the slightest variation, requiring the barest touch, so it was strange to feel so much change all at once. That’s how she knew she was close.
Behind her eyes, colors began to pop and flash, becoming something vibrant and viral, closing in on the periphery of her vision, almost as if her windshield were cracking from the outside in, morphing into some sort of strange psychedelic optical illusion.
At the same time, she could smell coffee. Not warm and fresh brewed, like coffee should smell. But cold and bitter and stale, like old grounds that had been left sitting in the trash for too long.
She pulled to a stop in front of a closed gate that was set between two massive stone walls that stretched around the grounds of an impressive lakefront estate. Violet could see the house that stood beyond the wrought-iron spindles of the gate. It was large and imposing with an enormous circular driveway out front . . . everything you’d expect of a private, gated home.
Whatever, or whoever, had summoned her, lay beyond that gate, she was sure of it. Yet she had no idea what to do as she watched the firework-like display of colors bursting at the corners of her eyes, spreading and parting and then coming together again in entirely different formations.
Most visual echoes remained fixed—attached—to the body, making it impossible for Violet to recognize them until she was just steps away. It was unnerving the way this one behaved, less like a visual echo and more like a tactile one . . . becoming a part of her. Attaching to her from the inside out, making it seem as if she were looking at the world through a kaleidoscope.
Every nerve in her body sang in anticipation and she could feel the magnetic pull to be closer, nearer to the body. Or bodies, rather, since she’d sensed two distinctly different echoes, noting the coffee-grounds smell that hovered in the air.
“You can’t do this. You have to wait for the police,” she told herself, thinking that if she said the words aloud they might mean more, might carry more weight. She tried to remind herself of the things Sara had tried to teach her, and even the techniques Dr. Lee had offered, to help her contain her impulses . . . so that she could avoid situations like this. So that she wouldn’t wander into dangerous situations on her own. But her words sounded hollow and robotic in her own ears, and she knew she didn’t mean them, any more than she meant to stay in her car and call for help.
She couldn’t help herself.
She had to go in there.
Turning off the ignition, she stepped outside her car. The sun beat down on her from overhead, reminding her that she should be elsewhere. With her friends, she thought vaguely. Having fun.
Not here.
She tucked her phone into her pocket, maybe the only intelligent thing she could think to do at the moment as she raised her hand to her eyes and searched for signs that someone was out there, on the grounds beyond the closed iron bars of the gate.
But it was just her . . . and the flashing colors and the decayed coffee grounds.
She wasn’t sure what she should do next.
Pacing in front of the entrance, she eyed the wall. It was too high to scale, at least without help. On impulse, she pressed the button on the intercom that was attached to a stone post.
She waited for a long moment, and then pressed it again. After the third buzz, she realized no one was going to answer.
The edginess inside of her was building, the call of the dead had reached a fevered pitch as the echoes grew. The sensation caressed her skin and rattled her bones, alternately seducing and terrifying her.
It was strong, this need to be found. So very, very strong.
Violet edged closer to the gate once more and gripped the iron rails in her hands. She strained to see to the other side of the grounds, to the waters beyond. That was when she realized the flaw in the wall surrounding the home. The lake. The tall stone fence line ended where the shoreline began. Where the water met the shore, she could get around the wall.
That realization set her in motion, propelling her into action.
She began moving, slowly, uncertainly at first, but soon she was running, following the tall stone barrier. She stopped when she reached yet another obstacle. The next-door neighbors had a similar fence surrounding their house. Also tall and also imposing, and also blocking her way.
But she was determined now, and she went around to the other side of the house. Her body was tingling everywhere, her vision disrupted by the shattering colors. Her breath hitched when she reached that side of the property, where still another house stood.
A house without a fence of its own.
Violet sighed out loud as she started running again, racing now toward the water’s edge. When she reached it, she didn’t stop, or even slow, she just stumbled into it, letting it splash all the way up to her knees until she’d rounded the end of the stone wall and had made her way back up onto the firm green lawn on the other side.
She didn’t stop to think about what she was doing . . . and what might await her if she didn’t turn back.
Her wet feet plodded over the grass as she ran up the sloped yard toward the house. She had no plan, no idea what she’d do if the bodies that beckoned her turned out to be human. All she knew was that they needed her.
She passed flowered gardens that had been pruned to perfection, and a detached garage with four regular-sized car doors and one oversized one. Through a window in the side of the structure, she could see a polished boat with bright red stripes parked inside.
When she came around the front corner of the house, reaching the entrance, she stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly feeling the gravity of her situation as a cold tingle of apprehension crept down her spine.
The front door stood open, and from where Violet stood, the colorful explosions were moving, drifting from her periphery and crowding her line of sight.
This was it. This was where the bodies were.
And what if it wasn’t just the bodies in there? What if whoever was responsible for the echoes was still inside as well?
She held her breath and strained, trying to decide if she could distinguish imprint from echo . . . if she could tell if there was a killer in her midst. She listened, trying to hear beyond her own imprint, but all she could hear were the sounds coming from the lake beyond: splashing and waves lapping, shrieks of laughter, boat engines that seemed to blur, one into the next.
And still, the bodies begged to be discovered. And still, her body ached to answer them.
She took one cautious step forward, her self-control teetering on the edge as the toes of her wet shoes abutted the front step. She stood there, letting the coffee-grounds smell and the medley of shapes envelop her, letting them overshadow all else.
Even common sense.
And then she stepped again.
It was the third step that led her across the threshold—of both the house and of reason—and into the darkened entryway.
The first thing she was aware of was the air-conditioning. It was set entirely too high despite the outside temperatures. The second thing she noticed was the smell. A real one that pierced even the bitter coffee-grounds scent that had been suffocating her. She knew now, more than ever, that she was in the right place.
It was the scent of death. Of newly decaying flesh.
Bodies.
She strained toward it, like a ravenous predator. Her hand closed around the phone in her front pocket now as her heart raced and she bit back her breath, afraid it might disturb the air around her and give her away.
But if someone was in there with her, it was already too late. Her shoes were still wet, and they squeaked across the tiled entry, giving her away the moment she’d stepped inside. She slipped one foot out of her shoe, and then the other, leaving the shoes beside the front door as she crept inside on bare feet.
She wasn’t afraid. She should be, she knew. But she couldn’t find the fear to hang on to.
The entryway was dark, but only because the lights were out, and as she slipped past the wall, Violet could see the sunlight trying to strain through the narrow opening between the heavy curtains that were drawn in front of a large picture window.
She went there first, her fingers clutching the soft fabric as she began to peel them apart, pulling them back along the curtain rod. Light washed the living room in its golden glow.
It would have been a beautiful setting, if not for the blood. And if not for the victims.
Violet gasped, choking on her scream as she staggered backward, falling against the window. She hit the glass hard—too hard—and she held her breath as she waited, listening for the sound of breaking glass to fill her ears.
It won’t hold. She’d hit it too hard.
Any moment it would shatter beneath her and she would just keep falling, all the way through it to the lawns below. And then to the water. And even then, she’d keep falling.
Falling . . .
But the sounds never came, not even a crack, although she couldn’t help wondering if it wouldn’t have been preferable to what she now witnessed.
She’d known there would be bodies. Of course she’d known it, she told herself, as she shoved her palm against her mouth to keep from screaming out loud.
She stayed frozen like that, with her hand pressed to her lips as she leaned against the window for several long seconds . . . minutes . . . or possibly hours.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from them.
All three of them.
Her vision was nearly blocked now as the colors of the kaleidoscope echo swirled and whorled and erupted in front of her eyes, leaving only gaps through which she could see.
But it was enough.
She could make out their sightless eyes. And their gaping wounds. And exposed throats.
I have to get out of here, Violet realized, coming to awareness only as her stomach recoiled violently. She eased away from the glass, testing her legs and her balance for only a second before she started running, scrambling to get to the front door again on feet that felt suddenly slippery beneath her.
Outside the door, she bent over one of the large potted plants that stood on either side of the entry and retched, clutching the sides of the ceramic planter and vomiting until her stomach was empty. Then she vomited some more, tasting the stomach acids that filled the back of her throat. And when her body had finally stopped convulsing, her head felt clearer. Too clear.
She was alone in a house with a dead family.
And that’s what they were, a family. A mother and a father and a boy—ten, maybe eleven, years old.
They’d been seated on the couch, although Violet couldn’t imagine that that was where they’d died. Their placement was too peaceful, the setting too serene. This whole thing looked . . . planned. Posed.
No, she was certain they’d been placed there.
Afterward.
She fumbled with her cell phone, her hands shaking so hard that she nearly dropped it. She had to try three times to get her Contacts list up, and even then she struggled to scroll through it. She searched for her uncle’s number, listed only under “Stephen.” He was the chief of police in Buckley, and although she might be outside his jurisdiction here on this side of the lake, she knew he’d be there in a flash. Less than a flash, if she called him for help.
Her thumb hovered for several long seconds before she changed her mind and called someone else instead.
When he answered, she whispered into the phone, her voice raw and her throat sore from throwing up. “I need you,” she pled almost silently. “Hurry.”
Even when she’d called him, Violet had known that calling Rafe meant she was inadvertently calling Sara too. Sara was the team’s leader after all. But more than that, she was also Rafe’s sister.
Violet hadn’t waited for them at the house, despite the nearly irresistible pull that continued to tug at her, trying to draw her back inside. Instead, she’d stumbled back around the stone fencing that surrounded the estate until she reached her car, where she huddled inside and shivered, even as the temperatures climbed to nearly ninety degrees. Sweltering for the Northwest.
This kind of heat kept the lake beyond busy and crowded, and Violet was forced to listen to that same constant drone of boats and jet skis out on the water, until finally she’d pulled out her iPod and turned up the volume. It took nearly an hour for Rafe and Sara to come all the way from Seattle, but the moment she saw Sara’s car, Violet felt something she hadn’t felt in ages.
She felt understood.
Rafe, more so than even her own uncle, knew what she was going through right now, since he too had an ability that allowed him to glimpse the world beyond their own. To see—and sense—things no one else could.
She’d been so annoyed to see him and Gemma at her school, in a place she’d tried to keep free from that part of her life, but now, today, she needed him.
And here he was.
Violet practically fell out of her car when she got her first glimpse of Sara, and it was Sara who rushed to Violet, gathering her in her arms as she assured herself that Violet was safe before either of them spoke. Violet had nearly forgotten how cold Sara’s touch could be and she shivered once more. Behind Sara, Violet noticed Rafe glancing at her, scrutinizing her with his curious blue gaze, and she wondered if she looked half as frazzled as she felt.
“What’s happened exactly?” Sara was asking, still holding her, hugging her. “Are you all right?” Steam gusted from Sara’s blue lips as she gripped Violet’s shoulders with fingers that were icy, despite the summer heat, and all thoughts that Sara wasn’t entirely on her side evaporated just like that.
Violet had grown accustomed to seeing Sara’s imprint, the one she’d earned when Violet had been attacked outside the Center—the day Sara had saved her life. But she’d never stop thinking that the imprint was probably the most fascinating one she’d ever seen.
A fine layer of frost coated every part of Sara’s skin, making Sara glisten like an icy sculpture, making her look as if she’d been carved from a glacier. Behind that chilly facade, she studied Violet with eyes that were eerily similar to her brother’s.
“I’m fine.” Violet turned her head and nodded toward the house. “They’re in there, three of them. All dead.”
Sara looked past the gate, at the stately house overlooking the glittering waters of Lake Tapps. Her hands fell away from Violet and Violet wrapped her arms around herself. “How did you—?” Sara started to ask, and then reformed her question. “Did you know them?”
Violet shook her head. “I was just driving by. . . .” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, realizing she hadn’t bothered cleaning up after she’d puked, and wondering if they could see just how affected she’d been. “I felt them.”
“Damn,” Rafe muttered, moving forward now, and Violet took a step back from him. She didn’t want to be comforted, not now. Not by him.
She glanced at him, nodding. “It’s bad,” she breathed.
“Who else did you call?” Sara asked, and Violet knew that what she really meant was had she called her uncle yet?
“No one. Just you.”
Sara reached for her cell phone. “I’ll call it in,” she said, breath gusting as she turned away from them. “You two wait here.”
The police arrived in far less time than Sara and Rafe had, her uncle among them. He greeted her like her uncle, hugging her so tight she felt like she’d get lost in his arms, whispering quiet questions that only she could hear as she nodded assurances against his chest.
Then, he transformed, slipping into his official role as chief of police, and Violet became an unintentional bystander, a witness to a crime. She watched as he interacted with the other officers, always fascinated by this no-nonsense side of him. Rigid, bordering on militant. So different from the carefree uncle she’d grown up with, the uncle who was always teasing and laughing and playing with her.
She expected to be shuffled away shortly after giving her statement, taken home to face her parents, but instead she and Rafe had been left outside to wait for Sara and her uncle. They stood on the fringes of the scene, not really a part of the investigation but not forbidden from it either. Ignored was more like it.
Or forgotten.
She watched in silence as officers moved in and out of the house, unable to stop thinking about what was in there.
But not about the bodies so much, and not about the blood either. Although both were forever seared into her memory, permanently etched into her mind’s eye.
It was something else that bothered her, niggled at her.
Something wrong about what she’d seen.
Something was . . . off.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, replaying the scene in her head once more. She thought of the word staged, and realized it fit the scene. The father had been placed beside the mother who had been placed beside the son. The only thing missing was a family dog.
Violet’s head snapped up as she realized what was bothering her. Not the dog at all, but what was absent from the scene.
“Rafe,” she said urgently, reaching for his sleeve and pulling him from his own quiet reverie. She knew where he’d been, what he’d been thinking about. Rafe had his own skeletons, and dead families played right into his deepest fears. “Where’s Sara? Do you know where she went?”
Rafe looked at her, his eyes still glazed. “No.” He shook his head. “Inside, maybe . . .”
Violet sprinted toward the house, but Rafe caught up to her, grabbing her arm to stop her. “Jesus. What’s up with you?”
“Something’s wrong. I need to go in there.”
“There’s a lot wrong in there, V.” He frowned back at her.
“No. I mean, I know . . . but there’s something I need to see . . . feel . . .” She trailed off, unable to explain what she was thinking. And then she looked past him. “Uncle Stephen!” She waved at her uncle who had just emerged from the front door.
He was rubbing his eyes when he looked up at her, and his expression, that look of worry on his face, deepened. “What are you still doing here, Vi?” he asked, pulling her aside. “I thought you’d left—”
“Uncle Stephen, I need to go back inside,” she insisted, cutting him off.
But he was already shaking his head. “That’s not possible. You should go home. I’ll come by later and we can talk then.”
She stepped closer, clutching his hand in both of hers, her voice dropping all the way. “I don’t need to talk. I need to go back in there.” She met his eyes determinedly. “Please. Just for a minute. There’s something I have to know.”
For a moment she thought he would continue to deny her, and she tightened her grip. But then his shoulders sagged and she knew he was giving in. “Is it that important?” He didn’t ask her why she needed to go inside.
She nodded. “It is. At least . . . I think so.”
He sighed. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take you in, but you can’t touch anything, Violet. I mean it. Stay right with me, and when I say it’s time to go, we go. Got it?”
Violet nodded again, and when her uncle started leading her toward the house, she saw Rafe, his forehead creasing as he watched her, behind the spectacle of flashing colors that crowded her periphery as she left him behind on the lawn.
Inside, there was that same over-air-conditioned feel, and that same smell of moldering coffee grounds.
Violet walked exactly where her uncle did, following in his footsteps as if she were walking on stepping-stones. They passed Sara, who had stopped talking to one of the officers—or maybe detectives, Violet didn’t know for sure—as she watched the two of them with thoughtful consideration, her icy brows raised inquisitively.
Violet was prepared this time for the explosion of colors that burst behind her eyes, and for the disturbing image of the family spread out before her on the couch, bloodied and gashed. They reminded her of flowers—fragile and delicate. Like death in bloom.
Her suspicions were confirmed as she focused on the colorful explosions and the smell of old coffee.
One of these bodies had no echo. At least none that she could discern.
She took minuscule steps, moving closer to the family, until she was standing near the end of the couch where the man had been propped up, set up to look as if nothing were out of place, as if he were spending an ordinary evening with his family.
Bending at the waist, Violet leaned in, keeping her gaze directed solely on him.
The result was instantaneous. The kaleidoscope of colors exploded behind her eyes, blinding her and making it impossible for her to know if anyone was watching her. Blocking out all else.
That echo belonged to him.
She flinched, drawing away, and bit by bit her vision gradually returned, clearing with each millimeter of space she put between them. Then she turned to the woman beside him.
She almost didn’t need to approach the woman to know . . . the coffee grounds were most definitely hers. But she did so anyway, tilting toward her ever so slightly, in the same way she had the man. And in that instant, the smell became so overpowering that Violet nearly gagged from the stench alone. She pulled back, more slowly this time, shuddering as she tried to find a breath of uncontaminated air in the too-chilled room.
There was only one body remaining. The boy.
Violet approached him more tentatively. Her music-box imprint seemed to swell in her own ears, but it had nothing to do with the boy. Likely it was only her imagination that made her more conscious of it.
She wanted to glance around her, to know who was still in the room with her because it felt like she was all alone now. Just her . . . and the bodies. Somehow, though, she couldn’t manage to turn her own head. She couldn’t stop watching the child with his lifeless eyes.
The echoless corpse.
She crept nearer to him and felt her heart stutter. At any other time she’d have felt something by now. At the very least, her skin would have prickled, her nerves tight with the awareness that she was so near a body. Even if the echo was faint and hard to find.
But not now.
Now there was nothing.
She turned to her uncle and dropped her voice until it was almost nonexistent. “I know you said I couldn’t, but . . . can I try . . . I just need to touch him. I promise I won’t disturb anything.” She couldn’t imagine how much more disturbed the scene before her could possibly be.
Her uncle looked around, considering her request uncertainly. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves—the kind she’d seen at other crime scenes on the people gathering evidence.
It was all the confirmation she needed and Violet slipped her hands into them before he could change his mind. She took another short step, watching her feet as she closed the gap. She didn’t want to touch him, but she wasn’t sure she had any other choice.
She watched her own fingers, thinking how stiff and cold they looked—so very much like the ones she bent forward to touch. Hers brushed across his, and she could feel the bloodless sensation despite the latex that separated them, yet the only thing she was aware of was the glaring absence of anything from him.
She stared at his blood-soaked T-shirt, noting the way his head slumped against his mother’s shoulder, and she knew that what she felt wasn’t possible. She knew this boy hadn’t died of natural causes. He had been killed, just like his parents had been. He had to have an echo.
Yet . . .
She shook her head as she drew her fingers away, wrapping her other hand around them. Fingers that felt as if they’d just betrayed her. Lied to her.
It wasn’t possible.
Still . . .
“What’s the matter, Vi?” It was her uncle, standing at her back now and staring at the same thing she was but seeing something entirely different.
She stepped back, bumping into him. “I—I don’t . . .” But she wasn’t sure how else to say it. “He doesn’t have an echo.”
She felt her uncle’s hands close around her upper arms and then his voice was at her ear, reminding her that there were others there with them, those who didn’t know what she could do. “Are you sure?”
Half nodding and half shaking her head, so that she looked like some sort of deranged bobble-head, she whispered back, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel
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