Desires of the Dead (17 page)

So why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she told him about her meeting at the FBI?

It didn’t really matter now; Jay wouldn’t be around anymore.

“I guess I just don’t know what to do, and you seem to have some of the answers.”

Rafe’s eyebrows rose teasingly. “You think
I
have the answers?”

Violet shrugged. “Well, you and Sara.”

“And you don’t want to talk to her.” It wasn’t a question this time. Rafe leaned back as he crossed his feet lazily at the ankles, but he wasn’t fooling Violet; she knew she had his attention.

She also knew she’d have to tread carefully; Rafe didn’t seem like the
sharing
type.

But they did have something in common, whether either of them was willing to admit it or not. Sara Priest was proof of that. “Look, I get it.
You
don’t want to talk about
you
, and
I
don’t want to talk about
me
. So where does that leave us exactly?” She cocked her head to the side.

Rafe lifted his shoulder. “Right back where we started, I guess.”

“That’s a bunch of crap,” Violet insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know
way
more than you’re letting on. Like, why is Sara so interested in me? What is it that she thinks she knows?”

Rafe leaned forward, no longer feigning indifference. “You tell me, Violet. Obviously there’s . . .
something
. Otherwise neither of us would be here in the first place. You’d be safe at home in your cozy little farm town and I’d still be in bed.” His face was expressionless, but Violet saw the taunting gleam in his indigo eyes. “If you want to swap secrets, then you go first.”

Violet squeezed her lips together, worrying and biting them until she tasted her own blood. She considered what he was telling her, and recognized the corner she’d let him back her into. He had her. Of course, he knew that. Violet wasn’t going to reveal what she could do . . . to tell him of her talent for seeking out bodies. And he damn sure wasn’t about to confide in her.

She exhaled, releasing the breath she’d been holding as she’d waited for him to disclose something . . .
anything
. “So do you work for her? Is that the deal with you two?”

Rafe laughed. It was the first time Violet had ever heard him laugh. The sound was quiet and low, just like his voice. “I work
with
her. Big difference.” He reached in his pocket and handed her another business card, just like the others. “If you have any other questions about Sara, I think you need to call
her
.”

Violet glared at him, but she knew enough to realize that they’d reached an impasse.

Rafe reached forward then and pushed the coffee across the table. “I got this for you. Double-shot vanilla latte. But it’s probably getting cold by now.”

Violet wrinkled her brow. “How’d you know what to order?” She picked up the cup. It was still warm.

He shrugged. “Just a hunch. Most girls like vanilla.”

Violet looked at him dubiously. That was pretty much the faultiest logic she’d ever heard. Most girls liked
a lot
of different things: chocolate, caramel, nonfat milk,
whole
milk, whipped cream, iced coffees . . . the options were endless. How could he possibly have pegged her for a vanilla-latte kind of girl?

Lucky guess,
she supposed as she took a sip. She got up to leave, recognizing that their conversation was over.

But Rafe reached out to stop her, careful this time to touch her jacket instead of her skin. “Oh, and Violet?” This time he was smiling, kind of. “Happy birthday.”

Chapter 21

When Violet walked through the front door, the house was filled with the smells of food.
Real food
, the kind that didn’t have anything to do with the freezer section of the grocery store. That could mean only one thing . . . that someone other than her mom had prepared her birthday dinner.

Violet didn’t care about the who; it was the
what
that had her mouth watering as she closed the door behind her.

The delicate scent of rosemary mingled with the heady aroma of garlic and lemons. She knew immediately that her dad had been cooking, because it was Violet’s favorite—at least of the homemade variety—
lemon chicken
.

Suddenly she was famished. And even the deterrent of an evening with her family—or anyone, for that matter—wasn’t enough to keep her appetite at bay.

She could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and she knew that she was already late for her own party. Thankfully she was able to slip quietly upstairs to change and freshen up. She felt like crap after driving all the way to the city and back, trying to get information from Rafe. And she knew she probably looked it too. She pinched her cheeks, to give the illusion that there was still blood pumping somewhere within her body, and quickly brushed her teeth.

When she decided it was the best she could do on short notice, she headed back downstairs, where her mom was waiting at the bottom of the staircase.

“Happy birthday, Vi!” She grabbed Violet, wrapping her arms around her.

“Mom, have you been drinking?” she scolded, only half-joking as she struggled to break free. She could hear the others in the kitchen, chairs scraping and voices coming out to greet her.

“No,” her mom scoffed, as if the suggestion was absurd. “I’m just—” She started to say something, but then changed her mind.

Worried,
Violet thought, finishing the sentence in her head. And she wondered what her parents must have thought over the past couple of days, with Violet skipping school and hiding in her bedroom, barely eating, and then disappearing this morning.

She didn’t ask though, mostly because she didn’t want to know the answers.

“Happy birthday,” her dad interrupted the awkward hush. He embraced her too but more gently, thoughtfully.

Violet smiled at him.

Her aunt and uncle were there too, along with her two little cousins, Joshua and Cassidy. Cassidy reached her arms up for Violet, and Violet lifted the little blonde-haired girl, commenting about how heavy she’d gotten, even though she was as light as a feather.

“So what are you now,” Violet teased the little girl wiggling in her arms, “like twelve, thirteen years old?”

“No!” Cassidy giggled, but that was all the answer she gave.

Joshua, who was just barely five years old himself, was already serious like Violet’s dad, a little accountant in the making. She had to force herself
not
to notice the similarities between him and the picture of the little boy from the waterfront. “She’s not even three yet. Her birthday is April sixth,” he stated precisely.

“Hmm,”
Violet responded skeptically, looking at him like she didn’t quite believe it. “I would’ve guessed older than that.”

Joshua shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him. And then he asked, “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick or something?”

“Joshy! That’s rude!” Her aunt Kat glanced apologetically at Violet. “Say you’re sorry right now.”

Violet set Cassidy down. The little girl grabbed hold of Violet’s leg and held on tight.

“It’s okay,” Violet told her aunt. And then to Joshua, she shrugged lazily. “I’m something, all right. I just don’t know what.”

The awkward hush was back. And Violet was aware that they all knew, or at least had their suspicions, about what was wrong with her. Probably that she and Jay were fighting, maybe even broken up.

She was glad when her dad linked his arm through hers and drew her toward the kitchen. “Come on. There’s enough food for an army. Let’s eat.”

Violet didn’t have to be asked twice. Food, at least, was something she could agree on. And he was right: There was more than enough.

Violet found a spot at the table and pretended to be interested in the conversations going on around her. She didn’t want anyone to ask her what was wrong. She didn’t want to answer questions that were too tough even to consider.

Her dad finished fixing dinner, and the chicken was served with garlic mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad. Thankfully the conversation steered away from anything to do with Violet—at least where Jay was concerned—and there were very few lapses. And even though it was Violet’s birthday, Violet was hardly required to participate.

She found herself chatting with the little kids—her cousins—more often than not, mostly because they didn’t need anything real, anything deep, from her in return. They were risk-free, and Violet preferred it that way.

Her mom had gotten around the no-balloons-or-streamers rule on a technicality. Obviously, Violet had not been clear enough, and she realized that she should have been broader in her statement, making it a
no-decorations
rule instead. But since she hadn’t, and since her mom had taken her at her word, the table—and the room—was overflowing with flowers and candles.

The result was dramatic. And even though Violet wanted to protest, to claim that her wishes had been ignored, that the spirit—if not the letter—of her request had been violated, she couldn’t.

Maybe it was just the effects of the first real food she’d eaten in days, or maybe it was the lack of sleep, but even
she
had to admit that it was beautiful. It made Violet feel better to be surrounded by it, and by her family, on her birthday.

“Thank you,” she said, almost to herself, as she kept her eyes down, concentrating on her plate.

The only reason she knew they’d heard her at all was the brief lull in the conversation.

That, and Joshy’s unaffected, knee-jerk response. “You’re welcome.”

Violet smiled as she took another bite of her mashed potatoes.

The conversation continued. There was cake and there were presents. Violet did her best to stay in the moment, to remain focused on the here and now, instead of letting her mind wander to other places.

But it was hard, and she found herself distracted far too often, which was what made it so much worse when they heard a knock at the front door.

Violet’s stomach tightened anxiously. There was no one she wanted to see right now, at least no one who wasn’t already there in her house.

She hated the tangle of sensations, the expectation and the dread. She felt traitorous to herself for even hoping it might be Jay when she’d spent so much time convincing herself that he was the last person she wanted to see.
Especially tonight
.

Violet glanced around the table, at her mother and father and her aunt and uncle and even at her two little cousins. Everyone seemed as paralyzed as she was.

“I’ll get it.” Her uncle Stephen finally stood up and left the room.

Violet held her breath.

She knew
. She already knew it was him. She was afraid to see him, afraid of what it might do to her fragile resolve.

But when her uncle came back into the kitchen, he was alone. And maybe only she noticed it, but she felt herself slump into her chair. She choked on the bitter disappointment that she’d been mistaken and was frustrated with herself for feeling that way.

And then he said the words that Violet had both anticipated and feared. “It’s Jay. He wants to talk to you.”

The air felt black and oily, suffocating her as she sat there. No one spoke as they all remained still, watching her.

She frowned as she looked at her uncle pleadingly and shook her head, unable to give him her answer out loud.

“Are you sure?” he asked calmly, and even though his voice was quiet, it was far too loud in the stark silence of the kitchen. Even the kids had stopped squirming in their seats.

Violet nodded, begging him to understand. But she didn’t need to worry.
He
didn’t question or second-guess her when she needed him.

When he left the kitchen, her mom and her aunt made polite small talk rather than pretend that they weren’t listening, trying to hear what was going on out at the front door.

But Violet couldn’t sit there and pretend any longer. As soon as she heard the front door close, she excused herself without explanation. “I’m going up to my room,” she said flatly, unapologetically.

Nobody tried to stop her or ask her if she was okay. Her parents would tell her aunt and uncle good-bye for her, and later—much later—when she was feeling more like herself again, she would apologize.

But right now she didn’t have it in her to be polite or to make nice with well-meaning family members. For now, she just wanted to be alone.

She was finished with her birthday.

Violet waited until the house was silent before going downstairs again.

She’d stayed in her room, trying to slip back into that state, the stupor in which she’d dully existed until Jay had arrived at her party, crashing through her poorly constructed composure. But no matter how hard she tried, the feelings were just too strong, and too close to the surface to stuff back down.

So instead she wanted cake. Maybe a good sugar fix could take the edge off.

She crept quietly toward the kitchen, and when she got there, she smiled. Her dad must have known she’d be back down.

On the counter, which had been cleared and cleaned after the party, sat a plate covered in plastic wrap. And beneath the transparent wrap was a gigantic piece of her birthday cake.

Violet felt a rush of emotion, but in a good way.
In the very best way
.

Next to the plate was a small pink gift bag stuffed with pretty tissue paper. Violet ignored the bag, only briefly eyeing it before going to the fridge to get the milk.

Only when she sat back down in front of the plate and unwrapped the cake did she wonder about the gift sitting beside it.

She thought she’d already opened all her presents, the ones from her parents and from her aunt and uncle, but she must’ve left the party before they’d had the chance to give her this one.

She lifted one bare foot onto the stool and propped her chin against her knee as she took a bite of the cake. It was perfect, exactly what she needed right now. How was it possible that something as simple as a slice of birthday cake could make her feel so much better?

She reached over and fingered the delicate tissue of the present; the iridescent sheen of it sparkled slightly in the faint glow from the light above the stove. Violet smiled again, wondering if the sugar was already hitting her system or if she was just that shallow, if receiving a present wrapped in such a pretty package could really make her this happy.

Shallow, no. But she was still a girl, after all.

She let the paper slip from her fingers long enough to take a gulp of the cold milk, washing down the rich frosting just so she could start all over again. She wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t have any better place to be at the moment.

After she swallowed, she took another bite, licking the frosting from the tines of her fork before finally setting it down on the plate. She pulled the bag toward her and peeked inside.

Whatever was in there was wrapped in the same pretty tissue paper.

She pulled out something small but solid. It fit in the palm of her hand. She removed the shimmering paper, unwrapping it, and inside was a bifold photo frame.

Violet wondered who it was from, admiring the delicate filigree work around the frame’s borders as she opened it. But when she saw the photographs that were already framed inside, she froze.

It was from Jay.

The gift. The photos. He must have left the present with her uncle when he’d stopped by earlier.

Her stomach lurched. She hated him for making her feel so confused, so conflicted.

The pictures inside were from the second grade, each of their school photos from that year. That particular picture of Jay had always been one of Violet’s favorites, mostly because she’d been the one responsible for his hair.

It was the year that the photographer had passed out those little black combs to all the kids as they stood in line, and Violet had decided to “fix” Jay’s hair. She’d led him over to the water fountain and doused his hair and then slicked it down around the crazy, crooked part she’d made with the free comb. She’d thought he looked perfect.

And now, looking at the picture, with his goofy hair and his brand-new oversized grown-up teeth in the front of his mouth, she saw that he did.

In a completely ridiculous way.

It didn’t matter though. The gift would have been thoughtful and sweet at any other time. But not now.