“Come on,” she told him, reaching out and slamming his locker door shut. “Come have lunch with me. With us,” she insisted. Jay would have to accept Grady’s presence. At least until some newer, better, juicier bit of gossip came along and bumped Grady back out of the limelight.
She thought he might argue with her; in fact she’d expected it. Instead, he looked down at her gratefully. “Are you sure?” he asked, and she just nodded.
She chatted the entire way, mostly to draw his attention away from the fact that everyone was staring.
But even more unsettling were the gapes and stares they got from the people at her own table when she and Grady sat down. Together.
“Really?” Gemma leaned in, getting close enough to her ear that Grady couldn’t hear her. “Now the two of you are BFFs?”
Violet shrugged the other girl off, the way she’d tried to do with everyone else all day. She didn’t need her own friends making things worse. She didn’t need
their
judge-y attitudes too.
She leveled her gaze on Claire and Jules and Chelsea, daring each of them, as pointedly as she could, to say something. Anything. And then Jay joined them, and she directed it at him too.
Not a word
, she hoped the look conveyed, in no uncertain terms.
But Rafe didn’t get the memo, and he was right at Jay’s heels. “
Killer
jacket, man,” he told Grady as he dropped down next to Chelsea, directly across from Violet.
Chelsea choked on the chocolate milk she’d been chugging, and came up sputtering. Jules reached over and patted her on the back, entirely too hard to be any kind of serious attempt to help her friend.
“Oh my god, Rafe, did you have to go there?” Violet admonished.
Rafe shrugged. “What? It’s a nice jacket.”
Violet glanced at the letterman’s jacket Grady was wearing and tried to imagine a world in which Rafe might actually envy it. This certainly wasn’t that place.
“It’s okay, Vi,” Grady said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Might as well get it over with. I figured I’d get some crap about what happened. But being back here was way worse than I expected. At least he’s talking to me.”
Rafe lifted his brows at Violet as if to say,
See?
“A little warning, next time? I think some of that milk went up my nose,” Chelsea complained, pretending to scowl at Rafe. But she wasn’t fooling anyone. A scowl from Chelsea was as good as an eye-bat from any other girl. She was definitely flirting.
“Must suck to be back,” Rafe offered Grady. “This isn’t exactly the most open-minded place I’ve ever been.”
Grady shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich. “It beats the hell outta going to juvie, I guess.”
Rafe half shrugged, half nodded. It probably was better than juvie, the gesture said, but also,
whatever
. Rafe’s usual response to just about everything.
Gemma caught Rafe’s attention then, from the other side of the table, and whatever message she was trying to convey to him, Rafe seemed to understand. He nodded and reached into his pocket. Violet watched as his hand dropped to his lap, his focus directed downward. He was checking his phone.
Gemma elbowed her too, a quick, discreet nudge that no one else should’ve noticed.
Except that someone had. Someone who’d been watching Violet a little too closely all day. Someone who was a little too fascinated by her, and what she could do.
Chelsea.
“What the frik was that all about?” Chelsea asked, falling into step beside Violet.
Violet glanced up at Jay, who was on the other side of her, and he looked back at her, puzzled. “What was what, Chels?” he asked.
“Okay, one,” she started, ticking off her list of complaints, “I wasn’t talking to you. And two,” she continued, looking meaningfully at Violet now, “I’m talking about that weirdness between you and Rafe and Blondie. That’s what.”
Inwardly, Violet sighed. Outwardly, she braced herself. This was exactly the part of her ability she’d avoided discussing with Chelsea: her team.
“It wasn’t anything. I don’t know what you mean.”
Chelsea stopped, and Violet considered forging on and pretending they’d lost her in the crowded hallway. But this was Chelsea she was talking about. She’d have to deal with this mess sooner or later.
Besides, Jay stopped too, and was now looking from Violet to Chelsea. “I’m pretty sure I missed something. Are you two fighting or something?”
“Nope,” Chelsea stated, frowning now. “And apparently I was the one who missed something.” She leaned close to Jay, so close that Violet had to backtrack in her steps to hear what she was saying. “But don’t worry . . .” Chelsea poked him with her elbow. “I know everything now. Violet told me her little secret. Or”—she narrowed her eyes at Violet, who was right beside them now—“I
thought
I knew everything. So what gives? Don’t tell me Rafe knows too. And that girl?”
“Shh!”
Violet hissed, dragging Chelsea by the arm away from the rush of students, not wanting anyone to overhear what they were talking about.
Violet turned to Chelsea then, her words coming from between gritted teeth. “I told you, it’s a
secret
,” she stressed.
Chelsea nodded. Eagerly. Wide-eyed. “Okay, yeah, and
I
was thinking we should have a secret handshake. Like a gang.” She held her hand out to Violet, palm out, but Violet slapped it away.
“Are you kidding me with that? A secret handshake? Are you
five
? Come on, Chelsea, this is serious. You have to be careful.” Her voice bordered on hysteria. “You promised I could trust you.”
Chelsea straightened up, dropping her hand. “And you totally can, Vi. I was just kidding about the handshake. I mean, kind of. You can count on me. I swear I’ll never tell anyone.” She met Violet’s gaze directly. “Swear.”
Violet watched her, studying her, considering her words and the earnestness of her expression. And then she sighed, her shoulders sagging and her stomach unknotting, just a little bit. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“So tell me then,” Chelsea said, stopping Violet before she could go.
Violet turned back. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me if Rafe and Gemma know too.”
Violet chewed the inside of her cheek, and she saw Jay watching her from the corner of her eye. She wondered what he would do, what he’d tell Chelsea if he were standing there, in her place.
Finally, she just said, “They do, Chels. But I can’t tell you why.”
Krystal waved enthusiastically as Violet got out of her car. She wore purple knee-high boots over black-and-white-striped tights that had a kind of, like, jailhouse chic to them. The streaks in Krystal’s black hair were nearly as glaring as the purple of her boots.
Krystal sprinted across the parking lot to meet Violet. “You okay?” she gushed, her arms squishing her friend fiercely. “I heard what happened last week. Rafe said it was
grue
-some. Said you totally lost it. Puked and everything.”
“Nice. Tell Rafe thanks for sharing.” Violet winced, wishing everyone didn’t have to know every little detail about her.
Krystal released her. “Aw, don’t be that way,” she coaxed. “That’s what we’re here for. Teammates, right?” It was hard to be bothered by the statement though, not when it was coming from Krystal with her big, guileless brown eyes staring back at her. “Oh,” she exclaimed then, reaching into her pocket. “I brought you something.” She held out a tiny blue velvet bag that was cinched at the top with a narrow length of gold cord. “I left it in the bag so it wouldn’t touch my skin. I didn’t want any of my mojo to accidentally rub off on it. It’s called merikanite obsidian, but some people call it Apache Tears. It’s for luck.”
Violet pulled the black stone out of the bag and rubbed her thumb across its smooth, polished surface. It had a tiny metal clasp affixed to one end of it. She could use some luck, she supposed.
“You can add it to the chain . . . with the others,” Krystal told her, pointing to Violet’s chest, and Violet wondered how Krystal had known she was wearing the necklace she’d given her. She always kept it tucked away, hidden beneath her shirt.
Already, there were two healing stones dangling from the chain. One that Krystal had given her just after Rafe had crashed his motorcycle, when Violet had first gone to visit Krystal at The Crystal Palace—the psychic shop where she worked. It was a slick black onyx, meant for protection. Violet had never pointed out to Krystal, who believed implicitly in the power of the healing crystals, that she’d given it to her right before she’d been assaulted by a gang member outside the Center.
So much for protection.
The second crystal had been a welcome-home present of sorts. Krystal had given it to Violet the day she’d come home, after her abduction. As a medium, Krystal claimed that she’d known where to find Violet after being contacted by the ghost of her abductor.
After
Violet had killed him, of course.
Krystal had brought her a pretty blue crystalline stone meant for healing. Violet had strung it on the same chain as the onyx. Unlike the onyx, the blue crystal was jagged and rough, but felt warm pressed against her skin, and Violet hated to admit how much she’d grown to depend on it. How badly she wanted to believe the stone would work. That it would heal her, make her better—both inside and out.
Violet pressed her hand to the place where the other two stones covered her heart. “Thanks, Krystal,” she said, feeling suddenly awkward about accepting the gift from her friend. “You really don’t have to do that.”
Krystal punched Violet in the arm. “Don’t be stupid. I know I don’t.”
Violet followed Krystal inside. She was always surprised by the way she felt when she stepped through the doors that led into the Center. Even after everything with Dr. Lee, she’d never felt . . .
uneasy
being here.
It still felt more like walking through her own front door.
It was no different today, when Violet slipped inside, that same sense of coming home.
When Sam saw her, he jumped up from the table, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive, and he rushed over to meet her near the entrance. They stood apart from the overpolished conference table, where Gemma and Rafe were already seated. Krystal didn’t wait for them; instead she dropped into an open chair and began bouncing impatiently.
Rafe shot an indifferent glance in their direction, but Sam moved to block his view, not wanting anyone to overhear whatever he had to say.
His expression was eager and hopeful, reminding Violet just how young he really was. “I think I have something for you,” he said, glancing around nervously, as if he expected to catch someone spying on them. “Let’s talk. Afterward.”
Violet had nearly forgotten about the photo she’d slipped to Sam at Dr. Lee’s office last week. She wanted to know what he meant when he said he
had something for her
. But when she peered past him, Sara was already standing at the head of the table, watching her, and Violet knew it would have to wait for later.
She stole a quick glance at Rafe on her way to the table. He was reclining in his chair, making an effort to look as unfazed as ever by everyone and everything around him.
Taking the open seat by Krystal, Violet couldn’t help smiling when Krystal threw her head over the back of the chair, leaning so far backward she was practically upside down as she grinned at Violet. “What was that all about?” she asked, not realizing that Sara had already started the meeting.
Violet pointed toward the front of the table, just as Sara’s ice-coated fingers held up the first image.
“These,” Sara explained on a gust of crisp air that only Violet could see, “are the first photographs of the crime scene I texted you all about this afternoon.”
As soon as Violet saw it, she understood why they’d all been called down here. There were two victims in this picture, a man and the woman, lying side by side, and both of them had their throats cut in the same way the family at the lake had.
“And
this
”—Sara held up a second photo—“is why we were called.”
Goose bumps peppered Violet’s skin, as déjà vu tickled her senses. It was an image of the same strange cross as the one from the other house. It had been drawn on the wall in blood or red paint.
“It’s called a brimstone cross,” Sara went on. “It was adopted as a satanic symbol by Anton LaVey in the sixties. But it’s also called the Leviathan cross, and is the alchemic symbol for sulfur. We’re working on possible connections in other cases, places where it might have shown up before. But for now, at least we know what it’s called.
“There was this, too.” She held up another picture. The words,
DO YOU WANT TO SUFFER?
had been written on a wall, also in the same dripping red substance that Violet was certain must be blood.
She glanced sideways at the others, to see if anyone winced or looked away. But everyone stared forward, watching as Sara flipped through the photographs. It was easier to look at pictures, Violet realized, remembering the way she’d felt when she’d stood in the middle of the crime scene. The way she’d puked into the planter on the front porch from the sight—and smell—of all that carnage.
Beside her, Krystal twirled her chair from side to side. “Who were they?” she asked Sara. “The people in the pictures?”
“Young couple from University Place in Tacoma.” Sara’s blue eyes found Violet then. “But they found another body at the couple’s home. A girl named Veronica Bowman.”
Violet stiffened, every muscle in her body going uncomfortably rigid. She recognized that name, just as Sara must have known she would.
Sara frowned and nodded slightly, the hint of an acknowledgment, and Violet watched as the lights above them reflected off the frost that coated Sara’s features . . . her lashes, her lips, her cheeks. Sara kept talking. “The girl was the sixteen-year-old daughter of the family Violet found,” she explained to the others.
Sara slid another photo down the polished wood table, past Krystal and toward Violet. “This was her.”