Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel

Chapter 5


VIOLET LET HER UNCLE LEAD HER AWAY FROM the bodies. She felt staggered by her discovery; she’d never imagined that a body—especially one that had so obviously died at the hands of another—could be missing its echo.

Yet it was true. The silence, the total dead space around the boy, was proof.

The impact of that fact had yet to sink in.

They’d almost reached the kitchen, when something else stopped her. Something that penetrated the near-blinding explosions behind and around her eyes.

She turned toward the wall, which was tall, reaching up two stories, and she marveled at how she’d ever missed this in the first place.

“What is that?” she asked, taking in the strange design as best she could. Taking in, too, the fact that, whatever the pattern was it had been drawn in blood . . . most likely blood taken from the very family who’d lived here. Who’d died here.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

The crimson smears were wide, too fat to have been made by any brushstrokes. No, whatever made this was misshapen and soaked in blood, as drops had oozed down the walls, gravity pulling them away from their intended formation.

But the shape itself could still be distinguished, despite the dribbles and streaks and smears.

If she were to describe it, she supposed she might call it a cross of sorts. Like the ones you’d see in church or on the Bible. But that wasn’t right, because it wasn’t a cross exactly. At its base, there was a strange, sideways figure eight, almost like a pedestal that it sat upon. And there was a second line, smaller than the one that generally intersects the cross, just beneath its top . . . perched above the other.

“We don’t know yet,” Uncle Stephen said, drawing her attention as he pulled her away from it.

But Violet kept it in her sight for as long as she could. Her eyesight cleared a little more with each step she took away from the man on the couch . . . and his kaleidoscope echo.

The kitchen was spacious and overly bright, and Violet blinked as she stared at the granite countertops, with their swirled and flecked patterns. They seemed to blend with the swirls and flecks that were gradually receding to her periphery.

“I don’t understand,” he was saying. “I thought all bodies had echoes. Everyone who’s been murdered anyway.”

She nodded hesitantly. “They . . . do . . . at least they always have . . .” she said slowly, but then moved her head side to side, just as uncertainly. “Until now.” She frowned, feeling foolish for asking her next question. “And . . . and you’re sure that he was . . . you know . . . murdered?”

Her uncle’s brows rose and she could feel the are-you-really-asking-me-that look he shot her way. Of course they’d been murdered. All of them, the boy included. Violet knew as much, she’d seen him with her own eyes. Felt his lifeless body even.

“I don’t get it,” she admitted. “There should be . . . something.”

“But the others?” her uncle asked. “The mom and dad . . . ?”

“Yeah. Both of them. Clear ones.”

Violet leaned back, trying to make sense of it herself as she stood propped against the edge of the counter. But she paused as she glanced at the refrigerator, her eyes skimming the array of photos taped to the face of the stainless steel door. They were cluttered and disorderly, lending it a homey feel.

She saw a picture of the boy pinned up there, suited up in his Little League uniform. His smile revealed his two missing front teeth and he held his bat at his shoulder, as if preparing to swing at the next pitch. Beside that was a photo of the couple—the husband and the wife—taken in some tropical locale. Both of them were wearing flowered leis, and he had on a garish Hawaiian shirt—the kind tourists wear. Among the images, there were report cards and colored drawings, and a birthday card that read: Who’s Ready for a Fiesta??? with a Chihuahua wearing a sombrero perched eagerly in front of a birthday cake.

At the top right of the refrigerator, there were twin school photos with the same bland gray backdrops, one was of the boy—taken several years earlier, when he was probably in the first or second grade. The other was a girl, several grades older than the boy. She had braces and freckles and wore a T-shirt with a rainbow emblazoned across the chest.

She’s cute, Violet thought, stepping closer to examine the images. She looked like she could be the boy’s sister.

Her eyes moved over a collection of magnets and a Crock-Pot recipe for chili. And then she froze and her heart hammered against her breastbone like it was trying to punch its way out.

There was a photograph, buried amid the others, almost unnoticeable at first.

She took a step closer, until her nose was practically pressed against the image, and she lifted her fingertips to brush across the stippled surface of the photo paper.

She stared at the couple, all dressed up. He, in his jacket and tie, a boutonniere pinned to his lapel. And she, wearing a short white dress with black ribbon trimming the hemline and tied around her waist. It had a dramatic effect. Her hair was pinned up and tiny curls fell strategically to frame her face. Balloons fashioned together in the shape of a giant heart created a whimsical backdrop to the vignette.

It wasn’t the picture, though, that made bile rise into the back of Violet’s throat all over again. It was who she was looking at in the image.

The girl was the same girl from the school picture. She was older in the dance photo, but it was most definitely her.

“Holy . . .” Her uncle breathed from between gritted teeth, and Violet guessed that he was thinking the same thing she was: That the girl belonged here. In this house. With this family.

Violet nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the image, because there was more. The boy in the dance photo with her . . .

She knew him better than she probably wanted to. And she hated that he was there, standing next to the smiling girl in her prom dress, while Violet had to be here . . . in the girl’s house . . . with her murdered family.

“We need to find her,” her uncle said now, reaching over Violet’s shoulder and snatching the picture off the fridge. “We need to make sure she’s safe.”

Violet stumbled after him, realizing she was losing him—her uncle. That he was already disappearing into police chief mode. “Uncle Stephen,” she called, before he was too far gone.

He stopped at the kitchen door and turned to her. “What is it, Vi?”

“That’s Grady,” she said, nodding toward the picture in his hand. “The boy with her, at the dance, it’s Grady Spencer. You know him, don’t you?”

Her uncle glanced down at the image, and Violet saw a quick flash of recognition before he slipped back into the living room, leaving Violet to decide whether or not to follow. She lagged behind, her hand hovering over one of the other pictures, the school photo of the girl in her braces.

As she plucked the image from the fridge, tearing the tape that held it, she heard her uncle on the other side of the wall. “We need to find the girl in this picture. Go up and look through her bedroom. Look for anything to tell us where she might be. In the meantime,” he added, his voice lowering, but not so much that Violet still couldn’t hear him, “start with a kid named Grady Spencer. He might have some idea where she is.”



Violet stood at the living room window and stared out at her driveway, her impatience mounting with each passing second. “What’s taking him so long? Shouldn’t he have at least called by now?”

She knew it was pointless to ask her dad, he had no way of knowing where her uncle was or what he was doing, any more than she did. But she couldn’t help it; all this waiting was driving her crazy.

Especially with these new echoes weighing on her.

She supposed she should be relieved there hadn’t been a third one to deal with, but instead, its absence was making her edgy, making it even harder to sit still. To relax, as her dad kept trying to tell her.

Relax? Was he kidding? She felt like jumping out of her skin, not soaking in a bubble bath.

“You know, it won’t do you any good to pace. Why don’t you just sit down and rel—”

Violet held her hand up. “Please. Just don’t say it.” She blew a curl out of her eyes. “Fine. I give up.” She marched over to the couch, where her dad had been sitting, doling out words of wisdom, and she flopped down beside him. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, she complained one more time, “I just wish he’d hurry up already. I hate not knowing if the girl’s okay. I hate the idea of her being out there somewhere . . . alone.” Her eyes burned and her dad reached over and squeezed her leg.

“She’ll be okay, Vi. Uncle Stephen’ll find her.”

She nodded, her eyes still stinging. “I know, it’s just . . .” She couldn’t imagine what that would be like—losing her parents. She couldn’t imagine having the police come to her with the kind of news they’d be bringing to this girl.

His arm slipped around her. “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“How does something like this happen? How are people not safe in their own homes?” It wasn’t like Violet didn’t know it was possible. It wasn’t like she’d never seen the news before, or watched a movie or TV show about home invasions. But the idea of it happening so close to where they lived. To someone she shared a connection with . . . even someone as unsavory as Grady Spencer.

It wasn’t the first time she’d known someone who’d died—not that she actually knew this girl or her family. But even then it had seemed so foreign to her, somehow detached. Like something that only happened to other people.

Yet she knew better.

She’d seen it with her own eyes.

The front door opened, and Violet’s heart shot into her throat as she jumped up, expecting to see Uncle Stephen standing on the other side. She was halfway across the room when she saw her mom instead, her expression harried.

“Violet,” she gasped, completely unaware of the disappointment on her daughter’s face. She dropped her purse on the floor as she reached for Violet. “Your father told me what happened,” her mom said. She drew back, her eyes raking over her daughter. “You’re okay? You weren’t hurt at all?”

“Mom, stop.” She wriggled out of her arms. “I wish everyone would just stop asking me that. Yes, I’m fine. Nothing happened. . . .” And then she added, her voice quieter, “At least not to me.”

“I thought you were learning not to do that. I thought that was the point of seeing that psychiatrist, so you wouldn’t put yourself in danger like that anymore.” Her voice rose, a hysterical edge creeping into it.

“Maggie.” Her dad’s voice was quiet, reasonable. “She said she’s fine.”

But Violet didn’t care that her dad was calm. She was too tired to pretend, too tired to act like today hadn’t been a strain. “I thought so too. It’s not like I didn’t try, but clearly, it didn’t work. Is that what you want to hear, that I’m too messed up to be fixed? I couldn’t help myself. I knew they were in there, and I told myself I should call for help, and I didn’t. You know why? Because some things can’t be fixed, that’s why.”

A single tear of frustration slid down Violet’s cheek as she glowered at her mom, angry at her for forcing her to say that everything wasn’t okay after all. For making her admit—out loud—that she really was broken.

“Vi.” The edge had left her mother’s voice, and now she just sounded . . . sorry.

“I’m going to my room,” Violet shot back before her mom had the chance to say anything else.



Violet wasn’t alone for long before she heard the slight tap at her door, right before it slid open. She didn’t look up from where she was thumbing through the pages of one of her grandmother’s journals, not really able to concentrate.

From the doorway, her mom sighed, but Violet kept her gaze fastened on the pages spread open on her lap. “I’m sorry, Vi. I didn’t mean—” There was a pause, and then without realizing her mom had bridged the gap between them, the bed beside Violet dipped and she felt her mother’s leg against hers, their shoulders brushing. “No, that’s not true. I meant to ask if you were okay. I can’t help it. I’m your mom. It’s what I do.”

She bumped Violet, and even though Violet wanted to stay mad—and she managed to keep her expression stern—inwardly, she cracked . . . just a little. She didn’t expect them not to care, and she supposed it was unfair to ask them not to worry either.

She just wanted them to stop acting like she was something fragile. Delicate.

“Aunt Kat called,” her mom told her, and she suddenly had Violet’s attention as her head snapped around to face her.

“What’d she say? Does she know anything? Has Uncle Stephen come home yet?”

Her mom was shaking her head before Violet had even finished asking. “She said he’s still out, but she wanted to make sure you were okay. She’s been getting calls from people who’ve heard about what happened. She said they’re asking if it’s true, that the bodies were found by a student from White River.”

At the mention of her high school, Violet stiffened. If word was already spreading, she wondered what else they knew. She wondered how much longer she’d be able to keep her name, and her ability, a secret.

Her mom tried to smile, but it was weak and uninspired. “Don’t worry,” she assured her. “They didn’t know who you were. And even if they did, they’d just assume you were there because of Uncle Stephen.” But then her expression became more serious, and Violet saw the worry she tried to mask. “So can I at least ask why you were there, Vi? Who are . . . Who were they?” she corrected herself.

Violet just shook her head. “I—I don’t know who they were. I didn’t mean to find them. I just . . . I followed . . . well, you know . . .”

Her mom nodded. Of course she knew. “Was it . . . ? Was it as bad as Aunt Kat said it was?”

Violet shrugged, not sure how much detail her mom really wanted. Or how much she could handle, for that matter. Her mother wasn’t like her. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing bodies, and even those of the animals Violet used to carry home when she was little had made her mom squeamish. “What did she say?”

There was a long silence, and then her mom said, “That they were slaughtered.”

Violet thought about that, the description. She imagined the scene she’d walked into, even as she tried to purge it from her mind. Slaughtered was a pretty accurate word. “Yeah, it was that bad. They were in their own home, Mom. Even the little boy . . .” She nodded, her focus distant. “It was really, really bad,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Sara Priest was there?” her mother asked, her words experimental now, as she tested the waters of their truce. “And Rafe?”

“I called him.” There was no point dancing around the truth.

“And were they able to help?” her mom continued to probe, as she tried to be casual about it. She rubbed at some charcoal residue on her fingers—a sure sign she’d been sketching that day. “Could they tell anything . . . about the family?”

Violet was cautious now. She had to be vague, even with her parents, about what the other team members could do. Discretion was the first rule of being part of the team. She shook her head. “Not yet. But I think there was an older daughter who wasn’t there . . . when they were killed.” Violet turned to face her mother. “And she and Grady Spencer know each other. Maybe even dated . . .”

Her mom stopped scraping at the black stains beneath the edges of her fingernails. “Grady Spencer?” she breathed, meeting Violet’s gaze now.

Violet nodded. “The one and only.”

“But you didn’t recognize her? She doesn’t go to your school?”

“I only saw a picture of her, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Uncle Stephen’s looking for Grady now. Maybe Grady knows where the girl is. Or maybe he can tell them something about her.” Behind her eyes, a throbbing pain pounded in time with her heart. “Do you mind if I lay down for a little bit?” She closed the journal and set it on her nightstand. “I’d kinda like to be alone for a while.”

This time Violet didn’t try to ignore the anxiety she saw in her mother’s expression. She could no more ask her mom to stop caring than she could will away the imprint that clung to her. “Go ahead.” The strained smile was back, but her kiss was gentle and spoke volumes about how hard she tried. “I’ll tell you if Uncle Stephen calls, ’kay?”





THE TIES THAT BIND


HE THREW HIS FOOT DOWN ON THE BACK OF HIS skateboard, forcing its nose up to his hand. Lifting it, he tucked it beneath his arm just before he ducked, slipping inside the opening of the wide-mouthed sewer drain. Even if it had been tall enough to stand in, the corrugated sheet metal beneath his feet would have made it impossible to ride his board through the tube. It didn’t matter though; he preferred to sneak inside noiselessly. It was better for all of them if no one heard him coming.

He emerged from the other end to face the grungiest apartment building in the entire city. There were only six units in the building, but he doubted there was water or power running to any of them. Most of the windows had been broken out at some point, only to be repaired by cardboard and duct tape, if they were repaired at all. What made matters worse was that there were actual tenants living in some of those units, people who handed over their welfare and disability checks to some slumlord who could give a rat’s ass about their living conditions.

He wasn’t one of those suckers, of course. None of his people were. They were squatters, crashing in one of the vacant apartments for as long as they could go undetected.

Slowly, he approached the main floor slider—the one that didn’t lock, but still closed at least—and he pressed his ear against it, listening. Inside, he could hear the low hum of Boxer’s voice followed just a moment later by the sound of Kisha . . . not quite a giggle, but an attempt to laugh.

He rapped once at the door, signaling he was there before letting himself inside.

Kisha was crouched on the stained mattress that the two of them shared in the middle of the living room floor. She wore just his T-shirt over her plain white underpants, and he could see how thin she was, as her arms wrapped protectively around her bare legs. There was a half-burned candle on a plate littered with discarded matches beside her, making the sheen of sweat on her face glisten and glow in the light from its flame.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, and Boxer turned to glance over his shoulder.

He lifted his chin in a silent greeting. “Where’s Bailey?” he asked, after doing a quick head count.

As always, Boxer was quick to respond. Faithful and diligent. He cocked his head toward the closed door, a bedroom the size of a closet. “Sleeping. She’s crashing pretty hard.”

But it was Colton who narrowed his gaze at him, scrutinizing his face and drawing attention to something he’d just as soon ignore. “I thought you weren’t going home. You said you were just gonna sell the stuff and get our shit. What the hell happened to you?”

He turned his still-throbbing cheek away from them. He didn’t want to answer their questions about the bruise forming beneath his eye. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Nodding toward the door again, he steered the conversation back to Bailey. “I got what she needs.” And then he smiled temptingly. “I got enough for everyone.”

He pulled out a plastic bag, showing them the fine brown powder inside.

Colton’s eyes went wide. “How much did you score? I knew we had a lot’a shit to sell, but I bet there’s enough there to keep us high for a year.” As always, it was Colton, wearing that stupid grin of his. Boxer knew better. He knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“I got enough. Bailey won’t be dope sick for a while.” He dropped down in front of Kisha. He reached out to stroke her gaunt cheeks, wondering when she’d last eaten. She stared back at him dreamily, trustingly, and his chest swelled with pride.

Kisha blinked, her eyes never leaving his. “Can I have some? Just a taste?”

He knew what she really meant, just enough to take the edge off, and he wondered if he should tell her no. He didn’t need the drugs to keep her, or any of them, in check. They would stay with him—follow him—regardless. But he liked being the only one who was clearheaded. He liked the way they had to lean on him to make decisions, even simple ones like what to eat . . . and when.

He cupped her chin, turning her face one way, and then the other, inspecting her even though there was nothing new to see. The smudges beneath her eyes were still the same, as was the devotion in them. With the slightest nod, he gave Kisha the permission she was waiting for, and she practically squealed, dragging the dirty sleeve of her T-shirt up and holding out her arm to him.

He handed the bag to Boxer and watched. Boxer worked methodically, squeezing her emaciated arm as he tried to find a vein that hadn’t long since collapsed. It took longer than it should have, but eventually he looked up triumphantly.

Kisha’s eyes widened as she watched Boxer draw the needle. The vein was small and it rolled when he tried to jab it, but after several attempts the point of the needle finally found its way inside, releasing the drug into her system.

After that it was only minutes—seconds, really—before she was transformed, her eyes too bright.

She blinked, as if trying to clear her drug-blurred vision. “Baby,” she whispered, allowing herself to be more familiar now that her inhibitions were down. She reached out to him, her voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he said, letting Kisha’s arms fold around his neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. Her lips were soft and moist and fervent.

He pulled Kisha onto his lap and he watched while the others took their turns, feeling satisfaction swell inside him as his sense of control was secured with each thrust of the plunger. They needed him. These were his people, his real family.

When Boxer had taken his fix and was leaning back against the wall, his head lolling lazily to the side, he lifted his brows, glancing at the girl in the corner. “What about her?”

The girl didn’t look up when she was mentioned. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made a peep since he’d gotten there. But her eyes were round as she clutched her knees, her fingernails digging into her elbows, and he knew her drugs had long since worn off. He wondered what she remembered, whether she even realized what they’d done—what she’d helped them do.

“I don’t know, Boxer, you tell me. You plannin’ to keep her?”

Boxer’s glazed eyes wandered to her. With some effort, he licked his fat lips. “She’s real pretty,” he said, his words becoming lazy. And then to her, “Come here, girl.”

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

He decided to help Boxer out, because that’s what leaders did. That’s what family did.

Still on his knees, he crawled toward the girl. Behind him, he heard Kisha giggle—a real giggle this time. He waited for the vacant eyes in front of him to register that he was there at all, and he reached out and lifted her chin, more roughly than the way he’d handled Kisha, forcing the girl to at least face him.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he whispered, hoping he sounded comforting, reassuring. He knew that wasn’t her name, but to be fair, he couldn’t remember what her real name was. “You in there? You still with us?” He squeezed her cheeks, just enough to get her attention when she refused to respond. “Colton, hand me that shit.” He held out his hand impatiently. He didn’t like to be the one to give it to her, but she needed it. Otherwise they’d have to get rid of her, and Boxer seemed to have taken a liking to her.

It wasn’t hard to find a vein in her arm; hers were still fat and unblemished.

It also didn’t take much of their stash to get her to return to them.

After a few minutes, she met his gaze, as if noticing his presence for the first time. He smiled at her, silently welcoming her back.

“Here, Boxer,” he said, shoving the girl toward him. “Take her. She’s yours. But you need to take good care of her. She’s your responsibility now.”

“Come here, Butterfly,” Boxer cooed as the girl staggered into his arms. She curled into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder as he petted her, the way he might pet a kitten. She never seemed to notice the blood that was still on her hands.

Colton was lying on the floor now, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, wearing that same grin he always wore. The younger boy’s enthusiasm was irritating at times, but there were worse things than enthusiasm, he thought, feeling the throb of his swollen cheek pulsing.

Besides, that’s what families did, they put up with one another’s quirks and faults.

“What about me? When do I get a girl?” Colton asked into the dim space of the apartment.

He didn’t answer Colton right away; instead he settled down beside Kisha, letting his hand move slowly up and down her arm as she finally found a peaceful kind of sleep. The kind that wasn’t riddled with nausea and night sweats.

After several quiet minutes he whispered softly, his voice spinning the same tale he’d told them a thousand times before, “Be patient, man. Big things are comin’ our way. When I’m famous—when we have more money than we know what to do with—you can have all the girls you want.”