All but one. The one she’d fallen asleep reading. The one in which her grandmother wrote about falling in love with her grandfather.
Violet knew it was cheesy, but she couldn’t help herself, it was better than any romance novel ever written. Her grandmother wrote so eloquently about him, and Violet found herself feeling sorry that he hadn’t lived long enough for her to know him in person. She was certain she would have loved him as much as she’d loved her grandmother.
She set that particular journal aside, not yet ready to tuck it away.
And then the memories of the day before settled over her, crushing her chest and making it suddenly hard to breathe.
The family at the lake. The missing girl.
Grady . . .
She knew what she had to do. It was the only way to clear his name.
Violet rapped softly on the front door, mentally preparing herself for the possibility that she’d been wrong about all this. That Grady
was
responsible for killing that family after all, and that he’d be wearing the imprints that would condemn him—the stale coffee grounds, the menagerie of colors, and the missing echo that belonged to the boy.
His mother answered, looking like she hadn’t slept all night.
“Violet Ambrose?” She sounded as surprised as she looked. “I’m afraid Grady’s not really up for visitors, dear.”
As if on cue, Grady appeared in the hallway behind his mother. There was a time when Violet had believed Grady was handsome—in a goofy, boyish sort of way. They’d spent enough time together over the years that she hadn’t always noticed it, the way friends sometimes did, but it was there all the same. Now, however, he looked pale and tired and skittish.
“Violet?” He blinked as he realized who had come to see him. “What are you doing here?”
Violet started to rush toward him, not sure whether she should hug him . . . or hit him for making her care. But even after everything he’d done, she
did
care.
He wasn’t a killer. That much she knew.
That much she was 100 percent certain of.
“How are you?” she asked, cringing to be asking such a stupid question. She could see just by looking at the dark circles beneath his eyes how he was.
Grady just stared at her, as if she’d grown a second—or third—head. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I just wanted to see if you’re
okay
.” She wondered how many times she’d been asked that very thing. It felt strange to be standing here, practically begging for his response.
Grady watched her, and for a moment Violet thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. Then his face softened, transforming into the old Grady, the boy she’d climbed trees with in the fourth grade, as he smiled at her. A slow, wistful smile. “I’ll be okay, Violet,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Thanks for . . .” Emotion choked his words. “Thanks for coming by.”
After dinner, which was takeout from her favorite Thai restaurant, and dessert, cupcakes that her dad had picked up from the bakery in town, Violet retreated to her bedroom. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the extra effort her parents were making in the wake of what had happened at the lake house . . . especially their attempts to bribe her with baked goods. But it was too much like a flashback of the days following her return home after the kidnapping, when every conversation had had an edge of forced cheer, and when an almost endless stream of neighbors and acquaintances had come to the door, bringing with them cookies and pies and casseroles.
Like she’d died rather than survived.
Even her friends had been awkward around her at first, not sure how to act when she’d finally relented and invited them over for a girls’ night to watch a movie. Like everyone else, Chelsea seemed to think that food solved everything and had shown up with a grocery store cake decorated with pink and yellow roses, and pink piping that spelled out the word
Congratulations
on it.
Congratulations
. Violet had stood there staring at the cake Chelsea had thrust out to her, wondering what she was being congratulated for exactly.
Congratulations on being the lone survivor of a serial killer?
Or just your average, everyday
congratulations-for-killing-a-guy
?
If it hadn’t been for Jules, who’d shoved Chelsea and called her an “inconsiderate A-hole,” and then scooped up a piece of the pretty white cake with her bare hand and smooshed it in Chelsea’s face, it probably would’ve stayed awkward. As it turned out, it’s not food that fixes things, it’s
food fights
.
Violet had been more than happy to stand in the corner of her kitchen and watch as Jules and Chelsea, and even Claire, had demolished the cake, smashing and shoving and squishing it all over one another, until they’d all had to change clothes, and had spent the rest of the night digging frosting out of their ears and noses.
That had been the first time Violet had laughed—really laughed—after coming home.
This wasn’t quite the same, but there was still that strange awkwardness about it. So, for now, she much preferred the less awkward peace of her bedroom.
The first soft
ping
blended in with the sounds of her imprint, and was easy enough to ignore. But it persisted—the pinging that struck the side of her house—once even hitting her window with a sharp crack.
Violet didn’t have to look to know who it was, or that if she didn’t stop him, her parents would.
She opened her window, leaning over the windowsill on her elbows. “You’re either going to break the window,” she whisper-shouted down to Jay, whose arm was cocked behind him, ready to launch another pebble, “or get arrested for being a nuisance.”
He wiped his hands on his jeans and grinned up at her, a grin that was equal parts wholesome and predatory. “Come down here and I’ll stop throwing rocks at your house,” he taunted.
She didn’t answer, just shut her window and stole out of her room. Jay was probably the only person who could’ve coaxed her out tonight, the only person she actually wanted to see.
Violet shook her head as she hopped down her front steps. “What are you doing here?” She stopped just before she reached him and put her hands on her hips. She didn’t tell him that perched against his car like that, he took her breath away, or that she was thrilled to see him. Instead, she tried to glare. “It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”
Jay grinned, looking for all the world like he had no place better to be than standing there, in her driveway, waiting for her. He shrugged at the same time, his easygoing stance never shifting. “Violet,” he explained, reaching out and looping his finger into the top of her jeans. He tugged, dragging her the rest of the way to him. The feel of his chest beneath hers made it even harder to breathe. “It’s only nine.”
“But it’s a Sunday,” she offered.
“
Mm-hmm
. . .” he responded, his voice distracted as he leaned down and nuzzled the side of her neck. His lips brushed playfully over her earlobe, as the soft stubble on his chin grazed the sensitive skin of her shoulder.
“It’s a school night.” She almost didn’t get the words out as she stopped caring what she was saying. As she stopped caring about anything but his touch. She closed whatever space remained between them, and her fingers curved up to his shoulder and around his neck, slipping into the back of his hair so she could anchor herself. Everything inside of her reacted to him, like he’d flipped a switch, awakening her in all the right places as she ached for more. The evening air was thick and warm, and smelled like grass and cedars and Jay.
Whatever spell they were under didn’t last nearly long enough, however, and with a shaky breath Jay drew his mouth away from her neck, resting his cheek against hers. It seemed to take all the effort he had just to stay like that. “If we don’t stop now, your parents are going to make the driveway off-limits too.” He remained frozen against her, his breathing harsh and uneven for several long minutes.
Violet couldn’t quite gather her thoughts. Instead she concentrated on the beat of his heart beneath hers and the fact that they were separated by only two thin T-shirts. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
She knew he wanted it too, but he just shook his head. “I wish, Vi.” He turned, just enough so his lips could leave the promise of a kiss on her cheek before he drew away completely . . . unsteadily. “It is a school night, you know?” he mocked, but he didn’t fool her with his forced smile. He was as shaken as she was.
Violet sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I saw Grady,” she blurted out unexpectedly.
Jay paused, looking down at her. “You did? When?”
“Today. I went by his house.” She tried to decipher what she saw in Jay’s face. She knew how he felt about Grady after what he’d tried to do to her at the party last year. But she also knew that he and Jay had once been friends—there was no way Jay wanted the accusations to be true. “He didn’t do it, Jay. He didn’t have an imprint.”
Jay studied her, as if he could uncover the answers to all his questions hidden in her expression, buried in her features. And then he asked, “What’d your uncle say? When you told him?” Violet was silent for too long, and Jay squeezed his eyes shut before sighing. “You
did
tell him, didn’t you?”
She chewed on her lower lip as she dropped her eyes. “Not
exactly
,” she ground out. But before Jay could interject, telling her it was foolish to keep things from her uncle, she tried to explain. “I know it was the chicken’s way out, but you weren’t here last night. You didn’t see the way Uncle Stephen looked. He’s not gonna be happy when he finds out I went to see Grady by myself.”
“When will you start trusting other people?” His words were harsh but his tone was so tender that Violet turned to watch his face. His eyes told her all the things his words didn’t—that he was worried for her, and fearful of losing her. That he loved her.
“I trust you,” she tried, but even she knew that wasn’t what he meant.
Wrapping his arms around her, his muscles tensed, consuming her in his silent oath. “I do my best, Vi,” he said against the top of her head. “But I can only do so much to keep you out of trouble.”
She laughed, but she knew he was being at least semi-serious. He wanted to protect her, like some sort of knight in shining armor. The thing was, she wasn’t a damsel, at least not the kind who needed saving from dragons and whatnot. Her worst enemy, as it turns out, was herself.
“Oh, and now you’re laughing at me. Great.” He groaned as he released her. “You’re not a walk in the park, you know?” His head was tilted to the side as he considered her thoughtfully. “You know what I think? I think you don’t even deserve the present I got you.”
“Present?” Violet exclaimed. “For me?” She pulled away, a tiny thrill shivering through her as she stared into his flecked eyes. “You’re wrong, I totally deserve it,” she exclaimed. She playfully walked her fingers up his chest, puckering her lips and batting her eyes at him.
“You’re ridiculous,” he scoffed, but he was laughing at her.
Giggling, Violet glanced down at his empty hands, her brows arching. “
Well
. . . you know I hate surprises.”
Without turning, Jay reached one hand behind his back, through the open window of his car to the seat below. When it came back he was holding a small, gold-colored bag with gold tissue sticking up from inside of it.
Violet recognized the name on the bag, even though she’d never gone into the shop. It was a store in the mall, the kind of place that sold jewelry and picture frames and collectibles. Not exactly a store where she imagined Jay would shop.
“Jay,” she breathed, not sure how to feel about this. First her parents, and now Jay. “What’s it for?”
“Just because.” He shrugged. “I saw it and it reminded me of you. I hope it’s not too weird.”
Weird?
Violet thought, wondering what kind of “weird” thing could possibly be contained in this beautiful bag.
He waited while she reached inside, excavating the diaphanous paper, and took it when she handed it to him. When she peeked inside, she looked back up at him, confusion painting her expression. “A turtle?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “
Okay
, maybe it’s a little weird.”
“Not the turtle . . .” He pushed the bag toward her again, prodding her to keep going. “Take it out.”
Violet reached inside and lifted out the heavy silver turtle. She looked dubiously from it to Jay and back again. “It’s . . .
cute
. . . ?” She didn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it totally had. She tried to rack her brain for reasons that Jay might think she wanted a turtle, or to think of something she’d done to make it remind him of her.
“Yes, Violet, it’s cute,” Jay sighed. “But that’s not why I got it for you. Open it.”
Violet looked again, and realized he was right, there was a tiny silver clasp she hadn’t noticed before, just beneath the edge of the embellished shell. Pushing it, the shell popped open, and Violet’s breath caught.
The inside was lined with black velvet, and Violet ran her finger over its soft silken surface.
She picked it up and turned it over. Engraved on the bottom were the words:
Moonlight Sonata
.
That was it, just
Moonlight Sonata
.
Violet looked back to Jay for a clue. “I still don’t get it. I mean, I like it, I just don’t get it.”
Jay exhaled and took it from her hands. “It’s a music box, Vi. You have to wind it up.” He flipped it over and wound the almost unnoticeable silver key she hadn’t seen before.
And that’s when it started . . . the music.
The
music.
She knew within two notes which song it was, and because of the engraving on the bottom, she also now knew the name of it:
Moonlight
Sonata.
It was haunting, hearing it played out loud and out of sync with the version in her head. Knowing that Jay could hear it too. Haunting and hypnotic and terrifying.
“How . . . ?” she breathed, not even able to finish that single thought.