Desires of the Dead (12 page)

“Okay,” Violet agreed.

Sara surprised Violet by standing up to leave.

Violet followed as Sara held the door open. She had reservations about going into the hallway again, where the saturation of imprints seemed to be the strongest. Fortunately they didn’t have far to go, and they slipped through another doorway just a few steps away.

Rafe was already there, waiting. His blue eyes met Violet’s briefly, delving into her, making her uneasy all over again.

She wondered what it was that she saw in his expression. Concern? Or maybe it was curiosity. Maybe she was an oddity to be examined. Violet glanced away before she had the chance to interpret it, insulating herself from the discomfort his brief gaze caused her.

And then Rafe moved discreetly to the far corner of the room, making himself as unobtrusive as possible. He seemed comfortable there, watching soundlessly, and with everything else that was happening, Violet found herself forgetting his shadowy presence almost immediately.

This room was different from the one they’d just been in, although she recognized it immediately. Not from personal experience but from TV and movies. It was a viewing room. The kind of room with one-way glass that the police used for lineups.

The space that they stood in was small. Smaller than she would have expected. And it was dark. The room on the other side of the glass, which she could see clearly, was larger and well-lit.

Violet’s head started to pound again, this time in anticipation. She was afraid of what this meant, her being here in this room. She didn’t think she was ready for whatever Sara had in mind. Her chest tightened and her breathing became shallow.

“Wh-wha—” Violet stammered. She couldn’t seem to finish what she wanted to ask.

Sara touched her hand. “Try to relax, Violet,” she entreated in a voice that was much gentler now. “This will only take a second. We have a person of interest in the murder of the boy on the waterfront. Just look at him. Tell us if you notice . . .
anything
about him.”

Violet couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She shook her head, but she couldn’t put her refusal into words.

“Just stay.” Sara’s plea was whisper soft.

When Violet didn’t object—or rather,
couldn’t
object—Sara nodded wordlessly toward Rafe.

He left the room and, within seconds, five men were escorted into the brightly lit space on the other side of the glass.

Violet shuddered.

Sara glanced over to watch her, scrutinizing her.

“Take your time, Violet.” Quietly.

“I—can’t—” It was a broken murmur.

“Look at them,” she coaxed.

Violet was frozen, her eyes beating back and forth across the strangers’ faces. Several of the men carried imprints, some more than just one. She could see flames licking over one man’s skin, heat shimmering above him. The taste of copper pennies filled her mouth, as did something else, something bitter that she couldn’t identify. And even through the glass, she could hear several sounds weaving together: a bird’s wings beating frantically, the muffled engine of a large truck, a child crying.

She even wondered too if she didn’t smell oranges.

The stimuli were too much, and Violet couldn’t distinguish one face from the next. Eventually she couldn’t filter one imprint from another. They were all distorted, a tangled mess.

“Can you tell me anything?” Sara sounded far away now, as if she were at the end of a tunnel. Violet hoped she wasn’t about to pass out.

She shook her head. It felt like it might split from the pressure building behind her brittle skull. Her eyes darted nervously from one face to the next.

Sara gripped Violet’s shoulders. The touch was like a jolt to Violet, jarring her from the blur of imprints that assaulted her and the even blurrier faces before her. She allowed herself to be turned away from the glass.

Violet knew that Sara misunderstood what she was going through. “I know what happened to you last year,” Sara comforted her. “And I know you’re afraid. But you don’t need to be, Violet, I promise. You’re completely safe here. They can’t see you.”

Violet blinked in response. It was all she was capable of.

“Just tell me this . . .” Sara requested, defeat evident in her words. “Is he in there?”

Violet glanced back, not really looking. She was trying to find something through the intertwined collection of sensations. She tried to locate a sound, single and solitary, from among the others.

The melodic vibrations of a harp.

She closed her eyes as she shook her head.

It wasn’t there.

Thank God,
Violet thought to herself.
It isn’t there
.

Violet stayed in the bathroom for longer than she needed to.

The interior was cool, and within its insulated walls she felt safer. Calmer.

She was grateful that she’d made it there in time, before she’d actually thrown up. Sara had left her alone, and even though there were several stalls, she was never disturbed by anyone else.

Violet leaned over the sink and scooped cold water into her mouth, swishing it around and then spitting it into the porcelain bowl. She splashed more water on her face, pressing her hands against her flushed cheeks and staring at herself in the mirror.

What is wrong with me?
she wondered.
Why am I so relieved that he wasn’t there, in the lineup?

Her eyes looked haunted. She
felt
haunted.

She knew why: She wasn’t ready to face him. She didn’t
want
to know who he was. Or
what
he was.

She waited for as long as she could, past the point of its being weird that she was still in there, before forcing herself to come out again.

Rafe was waiting for her, looking relieved, and Violet had the feeling that he’d been standing there, guarding the door, the entire time.

“Feeling better?” he asked softly, shifting nervously.

Violet looked around the hallway, wondering why they were alone now.

“Sara had to go,” Rafe answered before Violet could ask. And then he handed Violet two manila file folders before walking her to the elevators. “She asked me to give you these and to think about what she said.”

“I can’t—” Violet insisted, trying to refuse them.

But Rafe held them out until she finally took them. “You don’t have to do it right away, Violet. Just look them over whenever you feel up to it.”

His dark eyes held hers, and Violet felt that same nagging sensation that had bothered her when she’d been alone with him at the theater . . . the feeling that there was some shared secret between them. A secret that neither of them was willing to acknowledge.

A man in a suit brushed past them in the hallway, and Violet watched him go. She knew him from somewhere, but she couldn’t quite place it. She ignored the fleeting sense of déjà vu, too fatigued by everything that had happened to give it more than a passing thought.

When they reached the elevator in the lobby, Violet was relieved as she watched Rafe disappear behind the closing doors.

She sighed, leaning heavily against the hand railing, her forehead resting on the steel wall. When she reached her floor, she hurried into the concrete structure of the parking garage, anxious to get to her car and away from everything about this place.

Ahead of her, a group of men was gathered, and Violet overheard brief snippets of their conversation without meaning to.

“What was she thinking . . . ?”

“. . . a waste of time . . .”

“. . . total bullshit.”

The words would have been unremarkable to Violet had they not been surrounded by something else: the unmistakable impressions that hovered around their words, around their voices . . .
around them
.

Imprints.

Colors. Sounds. Sensations . . . twisting around one another and bound like tangled threads.

Recognizable to her in a way that was still too fresh in her memory to be ignored.

Bird wings. Flames. A child’s cry.

She glanced around at their faces as she passed them, reminding herself to stay steady on her feet, trying to concentrate on her steps so she didn’t stumble.

Their suits were out of place for her. She re-dressed them in her head. Flannel jackets. T-shirts. Faded blue jeans.

In her mind, she added the man from the hallway, the one she’d run into on her way out.

It was them. The men from the lineup. FBI agents. All of them.

So, what then, had it all been a joke? A trick?
A test?

She wondered if they recognized her. If
they
knew who
she
was.

She peered back at them once more as she reached her car. They didn’t seem to notice her.

Her hands shook as she got in and buckled her seat belt. She started her car and drove from the building without paying any attention to where she was headed. All of the streets downtown looked the same to her.

Had Sara set her up to see if she could really do what she suspected? Had Violet passed the test? Failed it?

Violet clenched her teeth, feeling angry and betrayed, but not really understanding why. She shouldn’t care what Sara thought she could—
or couldn’t
—do. And she damn sure wasn’t some guinea pig to be experimented on.

Her head was spinning again, her stomach churning violently.

She turned a corner and pulled into a crowded parking lot, not caring that there were no open spaces. She shoved the car door open and leaned outside, throwing up on the pavement. She ignored the attendant in the booth who eyed her suspiciously.

She thought about the words she’d overheard in the parking garage.

Waste of time. Bullshit.

It
is
bullshit,
she thought furiously. At least they didn’t believe any of it. Maybe Sara wouldn’t either.

Violet sat up and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, spitting one more time to try to purge the nasty taste clinging to her tongue.

Maybe now they would leave her alone.

Unless . . .

But the thought was almost too much to even consider.

What if she hadn’t failed the test at all?

What if she’d just passed?

Chapter 14

Violet dug through the refrigerator looking for something to eat as she tried to forget about what had happened at the FBI offices that afternoon.

She tried not to think about the things she’d said and those she hadn’t. She struggled to disregard what she’d sensed and what she’d overheard in the parking garage. But most of all, she did her best to ignore the ideas that Sara had planted in her head.

Her mom interrupted her attempt to scavenge together a meal when she appeared behind Violet, peering over her shoulder. She didn’t mention the hour, or that Violet hadn’t called to say where she was or when she’d be home, something Violet appreciated more than she could possibly express.

“Here, let me.” Her mom smiled, brushing her daughter aside.

Violet waited to see where this was going. Her mom wasn’t exactly . . .
domestic
. And cooking ranked somewhere near the bottom of her considerably weak household skills. But she surprised Violet, emerging from the fridge with a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. “How about breakfast for dinner?”

Violet smiled in response.

Breakfast for dinner had been one of her favorite meals ever since she was a little girl. Pancakes, eggs, French toast . . . even cereal somehow tasted better when it was served at the opposite end of the day.

“Absolutely,” Violet agreed. “Want some help?”

Her mom shooed her away, just like when she was little and always underfoot. “
Pshh.
Go sit down. It’s not every day that I get to fix my daughter dinner.”

That’s an understatement,
Violet thought as she pulled out a chair, propping her chin on her hand. “Actually, Mom, it could be. I still live here, you know?”

Her mom cast a chastising look in Violet’s direction as she cracked the eggs into a bowl. “Can it, smart-ass. You’re lucky I cook at all.”

“
Lucky, hmm?
Not exactly the word I would have used.”

Her mom threw a hand towel at her and then began searching through the drawers, looking lost in her own kitchen. Violet watched, grinning to herself as her mom grew more and more frustrated, searching the same drawers over and over again. Finally, Violet decided to help her out.

“The whisk is on the counter. In the ceramic caddy . . . the caddy
you
made.”

Her mom stopped digging in the drawer and dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. “Thanks,” she sighed.

Violet’s mother was an amazing artist, an undiscovered talent lost in their obscure little town. Her paintings graced the walls of their home, along with her sketches. But, above all, she had a gift for working with clay, and it showed in the skillfully crafted canisters, vases, and ceramic bowls around their house.

Violet wasn’t creative, at least not in the way her mother was.

She had a different skill.

One that, apparently, the FBI had use for . . . or at least a consultant for the FBI did.

She ushered the unwelcome thought away as her mom placed the heaping plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. Funny how something as simple as a childhood meal prepared by her mom could make everything feel so . . . so
right
again.

She ate in a hurry, not because she had somewhere to be but because each bite made her stomach feel a little more settled. During her drive home, the nausea had been replaced by the uncomfortable sensation of too much emptiness. Like there was a void where her stomach should have been.

Violet hadn’t noticed how lost she’d been in her own thoughts until she heard her mom’s voice and realized she’d been sitting right beside her the entire time.

“Everything okay?” her mom asked just as Violet took another bite.

“Perfect,” Violet answered, and then chugged her glass of milk. “This’s exactly what I needed. Thanks, Mom.”

“No problem. But that’s not what I meant. I mean is everything
all right
? Are
you
okay? You seem upset.” Her mother reached over and touched a strand of Violet’s hair, twisting a long curl around her finger and then releasing it. The look on her face was understanding, inviting. It had been forever since Violet had opened up to anyone.

But what did she expect? She should have known her mom would see right through her. Her mom always seemed to know when something was bothering her.

Violet sighed, thinking she would just shrug it off, keep her worries buried. But instead she heard herself asking, “Why has it always been such a secret?” And when she wasn’t sure that her question made any sense, she explained, “You know . . . the thing . . . that I do with the bodies? Why have you and Dad always made it so secret?”

“Hmm.”
Her mom nodded as if she understood completely. “I wondered when you would ask that.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m surprised it hasn’t come up sooner. I thought last year—when everything happened—that you’d want to talk about it. But you never did. You’ve always been so strong, trying to keep your feelings to yourself.” She smiled thoughtfully at her daughter. “I’m glad you want to talk now.”

Violet wasn’t as confident, and talk of feelings—and sharing them—made her feel uncomfortable. She had an overwhelming desire to take her question back, to forget that she’d ever even mentioned it in the first place.

But her mom made the decision for her. “It was never meant to be a secret, Vi. We wanted to protect you, of course, but we also wanted it to be your choice.
Who
you told, how much you told them. And when. It was never
ours
to tell. We decided early on to wait until you could make those decisions for yourself. We’re okay with people knowing—or not knowing, if that’s what you want.” She picked up her teacup, a pretty little antique thing, and took a sip.

Violet thought about that. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected to hear. For some reason, she’d always thought she was supposed to keep her secret close to her, guard it.

“Did Grandma ever tell anyone?” She was suddenly curious about how the others who’d come before her had handled this inherited ability. She knew that her grandmother, at least, had shared the same talent.

Her mom’s eyebrows rose, and then she laughed. “Your grandmother told everyone who would listen and some who wouldn’t. She once told me that when she was a little girl her teacher made her go home for telling stories about finding dead animals. Of course, your grandmother never found a
human
body.” She reached out to stroke her daughter’s cheek.

“So why do you think that
you
didn’t . . . you know, get . . .
it
?”

Her mom shrugged, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Just my bad luck, I guess.”

“Whatever,” Violet muttered, scoffing at the idea that somehow she’d been blessed by
good fortune
to be able to locate the discarded prey of others. But then she thought about her bizarre afternoon at the FBI offices. “So would
you
tell anyone, if you were me?”

Her mom got up from the table, clearing away the dishes. “I would think about
why
I was doing it, if there was a purpose in someone else knowing, and then do whatever my heart told me was right,” her mom answered as she dumped the dishes into the sink. She winked at Violet. “I know one thing, sweetheart. I know without a doubt that you’ll make the right decision, whatever you choose to do.”

And then she walked out of the kitchen, leaving Violet with more questions than before. Somehow she’d expected her mother to confirm what she’d always believed: that it was a secret. And that it should remain that way.

Instead her head reeled with new possibilities. About telling someone new. About helping the FBI. About purposefully tracking down killers.

It was a lot for one girl to consider. And for now, at least, it was a task she was too physically and emotionally depleted to worry about.

She turned out the lights as she made her way up to her room.

As tired as she was, Violet didn’t go to sleep right away. Instead she lay on her bed, stretched out on her stomach, looking at the files Sara had asked Rafe to give her.

She knew what Sara expected, of course, what she thought Violet could do with a stack of photographs and police reports. She thought Violet was some kind of psychic. Sara thought Violet would be able to solve mysteries simply by running her hands over the evidence they’d gathered.

If only it were that simple.

Violet reached for one of the two files, the one from the little boy’s case. She glanced inside at a photograph of his face. She ran her fingertip over the picture, tracing the line of his sweet little mouth, wondering how someone could harm a child. Violet felt a dark stab of sorrow deep in her chest. He was so young, so innocent.

She closed the folder and opened the other one instead.

Inside was a photo of a woman. According to the file, her name was Serena Russo—Mike’s mom. The picture wasn’t current; even two years ago it would have been dated, as if it were pulled from a frame that had been hanging in the family home. It was faded, and the clothing was long out of style, but in it she was smiling. She’d been happy when the picture was taken.

There were two other photos in the folder, both from crimes older than Serena Russo’s disappearance. Both taken after her first husband had abused her. In them, her face was bruised, her eyes swollen, her lips bloodied.

Violet turned over the pictures of the injured woman, unable to look for too long.

Goose bumps raked her skin as she glanced at the mug shot of the man responsible. She looked at his name: Roger Hartman. She glanced casually at his address and was startled to see that it was only an hour away from where she lived.

Violet could understand why Sara believed that this man might be responsible for the woman’s disappearance, and she wondered what it was that Sara really suspected. Did she think that Mike’s mother was dead? That she’d been murdered by her abusive ex-husband?

It seemed unfair that he should be allowed to go on as if nothing had changed, when the Russo family had been torn apart.

Suddenly, Violet was sorry that she couldn’t help, sorry she wasn’t able to do something to ease the emptiness that Mike and his sister must feel in the wake of their mother’s absence. To lighten the burden that their father must bear without his wife.

The not knowing
, as Sara had described it.

She closed the file and shoved them both into her backpack.

Violet wished she could help, wished she could do something to give Mike’s family a little closure of their own.