“DID I MENTION I’M GLAD IT’S FRIDAY?” ROLLING over, Violet tried to ignore the protesting groan of springs whenever either she or Jay moved, making it sound like they were using his bed as a trampoline. She leaned up on her elbows and stared down at him, her lips curving into a lazy smile as she took in his disheveled hair and the uneven grin that met her. “I wish you didn’t have to work tomorrow. You could go to the lake with us.” She’d meant with Chelsea, Jules, and Claire, and probably everyone else from school who would be soaking up these last few days of summer.
Jay reached up and parted Violet’s curls, moving them away from her face so he could study her, the way he always did—gazing into her eyes and making her feel like he could see inside of her, before finally settling on her lips. He looked at them too, making her stomach feel fluttery as her face flushed in anticipation. “You won’t even notice I’m not there,” he teased, his mouth almost to hers. “Did I mention how glad I am you suggested hanging out here tonight instead of at your house?” The low timbre of his voice made Violet’s heart hammer against her chest as she leaned just the tiniest bit closer, so that his breath lingered with hers. “I mean, nothing against your parents, Vi, but this is
way
better than having your mom follow us around, asking if we need anything every five seconds. She might as well just say she doesn’t want us messing around instead of trying to spy on us all the time.”
Violet smiled back at him, but didn’t disagree with his assessment. She must’ve asked her mom a hundred times to back off . . . just a little. She’d come to terms with the “no bedroom” rule where Jay was concerned, but her mother’s constant hovering had reached the point that they had no space at all when they were at her house. It was impossible to even get through a movie without her mom offering to pop popcorn for them, or scoop them some ice cream, or order pizza, any excuse she could find to check in on the two of them.
“I thought things would get better once I turned seventeen, but I swear it’s gotten worse. Worse than worse. She’s making me feel like a prisoner on suicide watch.”
“What’d you expect, Vi?” he asked, pulling her down so she was nestled against him. The scent of his soap, crisp and fresh, filled her nose as she rested her head against his shoulder. His bed creaked again and Violet wondered what his mom must think. Then she realized that Ann Heaton wasn’t like her mom. She wouldn’t barge in on them, and probably didn’t have her ear pressed against the other side of the door. “After everything that’s happened? Your folks are just worried, that’s all.” His voice rumbled against her ear.
Violet reached up to find his hand at her shoulder. Her fingers danced and laced and moved through his, never settling in one place, and all the while his thumb traced her palm, her wrist, her pulse. She was amazed how such innocent gestures could make her hot and restless. “But that’s the thing. I don’t see how what you and I are—
or aren’t
—doing has to do with . . .
that. . . .
” She faltered over the words. It was one thing to be aware of what had happened to her—the abduction, the fact that she’d had to kill the man who’d kidnapped her so she could escape—but it was another altogether to actually talk about it . . . even all these months later. She still struggled with that part. Even now, lying here with Jay, she could hear the constant reminder of what she’d done. “I just don’t see how those two things are related at all. It’s not like you were responsible for what happened to me. They can’t possibly blame you—you weren’t even there.”
Jay’s hand went still, and he stiffened beside her.
“Jay . . .” Violet frowned, squeezing his fingers with hers. “I didn’t . . . you know what I meant.” She peeked up at him. She wasn’t the only one bothered by this subject. Jay still blamed himself for not getting to her house sooner, and her parents felt as if they never should have left her alone in the first place. “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known he was there. No one did.”
She thought of Rafe and Gemma and Krystal, even Sam. None of the members of her team, even with all their special abilities, had been able to predict that the killer was coming after her. None of them had been able to stop it from happening.
He dropped her hand and pulled her close, protectively. “I know,” he sighed. “It’s just . . . I’m sure they feel the same way I do, that they wish you hadn’t had to go through any of that. I’m sure they just want to make sure it never happens again, even if that means they’re a little overprotective.”
Violet decided she was tired of pretending that every nerve in her body wasn’t straining to be closer to him. She rolled on top of him, so that her chest was pressed against his. “And you know what I think?” she asked with a wicked smile as she stared at his lips, thinking how warm and soft they looked. How badly she wanted to taste them. “I think they just want to make sure we don’t do this.” She lowered herself then, letting her mouth softly graze over his as a tremor rocketed along her spine, making her flesh prickle. She drew back, just enough so she could speak. “I gotta say, though, I kinda want to.”
His breath gusted against her lips as he grinned back at her, pulling her down so she was no longer teasing, tempting him. When her mouth parted for him, her pulse exploded, and suddenly she was aware of nothing—not the music-box imprint or the creaking of the bedsprings or her looming curfew. All she cared about was Jay, and the fact that their hearts were beating in time, and she was kissing him. She just wanted to keep kissing him.
His lips were soft and salty and tasted like shelter from the storm that raged inside her. His unintelligible words, as he whispered them against her mouth, were like a melody all their own, drowning out all else.
She pressed herself closer . . . as close as she could get. In Jay’s arms, she felt alive. And free.
At peace.
Violet squinted against the sun that came in through her windshield as she reached the stop sign, and then she turned, if for no other reason than to avoid the glare. She knew the wrong turn would delay her arrival even more, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wasn’t lost or anything—she knew exactly where she was—yet she was in no hurry to get to her destination.
She was already late, there was no changing that fact now.
Still, she felt bad she wasn’t making more of an effort to meet them on time. It wasn’t their fault her head was ringing. Literally.
She continued to drive like that—with no real plan in mind—turning, and turning again, winding along side roads, and then back roads, until she could see glimpses of the lake between the houses lined up along the opposite side of the street. Turning up the radio, she was able to drown out the other song that was in the car with her, the one she wasn’t in the mood to listen to.
It wasn’t until she felt the familiar quivering beneath her skin that she realized she hadn’t been driving without a purpose after all. That at some point, her course had begun to mean something . . . at least to her.
She didn’t have to distinguish an echo to recognize its presence. And it didn’t take more than a second to realize it wasn’t the one she carried with her.
These vibrations reached into the center of her body and tugged at her, telling her there was a body out there . . . calling to her.
She came to a fork in the road, one she’d passed before—dozens, maybe hundreds of times—one she’d never even considered before this very moment. Normally, she would veer right, following the main road as it continued, eventually winding away from the lake and heading into town.
But this time she pulled her steering wheel in the other direction, to the left. It was just the slightest variation, requiring the barest touch, so it was strange to feel so much change all at once. That’s how she knew she was close.
Behind her eyes, colors began to pop and flash, becoming something vibrant and viral, closing in on the periphery of her vision, almost as if her windshield were cracking from the outside in, morphing into some sort of strange psychedelic optical illusion.
At the same time, she could smell coffee. Not warm and fresh brewed, like coffee should smell. But cold and bitter and stale, like old grounds that had been left sitting in the trash for too long.
She pulled to a stop in front of a closed gate that was set between two massive stone walls that stretched around the grounds of an impressive lakefront estate. Violet could see the house that stood beyond the wrought-iron spindles of the gate. It was large and imposing with an enormous circular driveway out front . . . everything you’d expect of a private, gated home.
Whatever, or whoever, had summoned her, lay beyond that gate, she was sure of it. Yet she had no idea what to do as she watched the firework-like display of colors bursting at the corners of her eyes, spreading and parting and then coming together again in entirely different formations.
Most visual echoes remained fixed—attached—to the body, making it impossible for Violet to recognize them until she was just steps away. It was unnerving the way this one behaved, less like a visual echo and more like a tactile one . . . becoming a part of her. Attaching to her from the inside out, making it seem as if she were looking at the world through a kaleidoscope.
Every nerve in her body sang in anticipation and she could feel the magnetic pull to be closer, nearer to the body. Or bodies, rather, since she’d sensed two distinctly different echoes, noting the coffee-grounds smell that hovered in the air.
“You can’t do this. You have to wait for the police,” she told herself, thinking that if she said the words aloud they might mean more, might carry more weight. She tried to remind herself of the things Sara had tried to teach her, and even the techniques Dr. Lee had offered, to help her contain her impulses . . . so that she could avoid situations like this. So that she wouldn’t wander into dangerous situations on her own. But her words sounded hollow and robotic in her own ears, and she knew she didn’t mean them, any more than she meant to stay in her car and call for help.
She couldn’t help herself.
She
had
to go in there.
Turning off the ignition, she stepped outside her car. The sun beat down on her from overhead, reminding her that she should be elsewhere. With her friends, she thought vaguely. Having fun.
Not here.
She tucked her phone into her pocket, maybe the only intelligent thing she could think to do at the moment as she raised her hand to her eyes and searched for signs that someone was out there, on the grounds beyond the closed iron bars of the gate.
But it was just her . . . and the flashing colors and the decayed coffee grounds.
She wasn’t sure what she should do next.
Pacing in front of the entrance, she eyed the wall. It was too high to scale, at least without help. On impulse, she pressed the button on the intercom that was attached to a stone post.
She waited for a long moment, and then pressed it again. After the third buzz, she realized no one was going to answer.
The edginess inside of her was building, the call of the dead had reached a fevered pitch as the echoes grew. The sensation caressed her skin and rattled her bones, alternately seducing and terrifying her.
It was strong, this need to be found. So very,
very
strong.
Violet edged closer to the gate once more and gripped the iron rails in her hands. She strained to see to the other side of the grounds, to the waters beyond. That was when she realized the flaw in the wall surrounding the home. The lake. The tall stone fence line ended where the shoreline began. Where the water met the shore, she could get around the wall.
That realization set her in motion, propelling her into action.
She began moving, slowly, uncertainly at first, but soon she was running, following the tall stone barrier. She stopped when she reached yet another obstacle. The next-door neighbors had a similar fence surrounding their house. Also tall and also imposing, and also blocking her way.
But she was determined now, and she went around to the other side of the house. Her body was tingling everywhere, her vision disrupted by the shattering colors. Her breath hitched when she reached that side of the property, where still another house stood.
A house
without
a fence of its own.
Violet sighed out loud as she started running again, racing now toward the water’s edge. When she reached it, she didn’t stop, or even slow, she just stumbled into it, letting it splash all the way up to her knees until she’d rounded the end of the stone wall and had made her way back up onto the firm green lawn on the other side.
She didn’t stop to think about what she was doing . . . and what might await her if she didn’t turn back.
Her wet feet plodded over the grass as she ran up the sloped yard toward the house. She had no plan, no idea what she’d do if the bodies that beckoned her turned out to be human. All she knew was that they needed her.
She passed flowered gardens that had been pruned to perfection, and a detached garage with four regular-sized car doors and one oversized one. Through a window in the side of the structure, she could see a polished boat with bright red stripes parked inside.
When she came around the front corner of the house, reaching the entrance, she stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly feeling the gravity of her situation as a cold tingle of apprehension crept down her spine.
The front door stood open, and from where Violet stood, the colorful explosions were moving, drifting from her periphery and crowding her line of sight.
This was it. This was where the bodies were.
And what if it wasn’t just the bodies in there? What if whoever was responsible for the echoes was still inside as well?
She held her breath and strained, trying to decide if she could distinguish imprint from echo . . . if she could tell if there was a killer in her midst. She listened, trying to hear beyond her own imprint, but all she could hear were the sounds coming from the lake beyond: splashing and waves lapping, shrieks of laughter, boat engines that seemed to blur, one into the next.