Desires of the Dead (18 page)

His gift didn’t change anything.

He didn’t trust her. He didn’t believe her. And that was all that mattered now. He couldn’t take that back by dropping off a present . . . not even an adorable one.

It was the worst possible gift he could have given her at a time like this. And it was exactly the kind of ending Violet should have expected from the worst birthday of her life.

She shoved the frame and the tissue back inside the bag, and she left it, along with the rest of her uneaten cake, on the counter as she stalked back up the stairs.

Stupid, stupid Jay.

Just when she was starting to feel a little bit better, he had to come along and ruin it again.

Sloth

Silence gathered, heralding her favorite time of night.

She crept from her room as noiselessly as she could, the old floorboards creaking on occasion, but she had learned the best places to step to keep them from protesting too loudly. The house was dark, just the way she liked it. And calm.

The living room was cluttered with dirty dishes, and newspapers were spread over nearly every surface. Laundry—dirty and clean—littered the floors, and bottles covered the coffee table in front of the television.

She worked quickly, gathering the newspapers. She carried plates and empty bottles to the kitchen, picking up garbage and folding laundry. She tried not to breathe the sour odor of cheap whiskey that mingled sickeningly with the scent of cigarettes that clung to everything her father touched—his clothing, his skin, his breath. She cringed at the idea of those odors—his odors—touching her.

She told herself to ignore them; the sooner she finished, the sooner she could get back to bed.

She heard a door open down the shadowed hallway, and her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart forgot to beat.

Footsteps padded over the floorboards, obviously not as careful as hers had been, and she winced with every creak she heard.

“What are you doing?” her brother muttered, bleary-eyed, and at last she found her breath. “You can do this in the morning.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him the truth, that she much preferred to do her chores when their father wasn’t around. That in the morning there was still a chance he’d be there. That she might have to see him, to talk to him. “I couldn’t sleep,” she lied.

“At least let me help,” he offered, clearing the countertops and carrying the rest of the dishes to the sink.

She thought about opening up to her brother, about asking him how he could stand this useless version of their father. How he could stand any of it.

But she knew how: He was stronger than she was; he always had been. Even when they were little, she was the one who stumbled and fell, who needed someone to pick her up and brush her off. She was the one who’d needed their mother.

He had always been so independent, so determined to do things on his own. He was smart, social, resilient. Everything she wasn’t.

Sometimes she wondered if he’d even noticed that their mother was gone. That their father was no longer the same man. And that she was damaged . . . broken.

She wanted to talk to him, but she wouldn’t, because she didn’t want him to see how weak she was.

So, instead of talking, she finished the dishes in silence.

As she dried her hands, her brother tied off the kitchen trash bag. “Go on and go to bed.” His smile was genuine, maybe even sweet. “I’ll finish up and turn out the lights.”

She didn’t argue; she just nodded, making her way back down the hallway, watching each step she took, carefully calculating where her foot should fall so as not to wake her father.

Chapter 22

Violet went back to school the next day, mostly because she knew staying home again wouldn’t make her return any easier. She had to get it over with eventually. But being there, under the same roof as Jay, was something along the lines of a carefully choreographed dance. And it wasn’t just Jay she needed to avoid.

Violet didn’t expect it to be difficult to steer clear of Megan. They were in different classes—different grades—and it had never been a problem before. But now Violet was acutely aware that it was always a possibility, that at some point, and when she least expected it, there was a chance they could cross paths.

Jay, however, was a different story. It would have been impossible to avoid him altogether, especially since they shared some of the same classes. But Violet did everything in her power to stay as far away from him as she could.

She arrived to her classes early and asked other students if she could switch seats with them, earning her a strange look or two, but no one actually complained—at least not out loud anyway.

But even with those precautions, Violet still felt uncomfortable. She could feel Jay’s eyes on her, beseeching her to look his way, daring her to ignore him.

And it was hard. Violet
wanted
to peek, to sneak a glance in his direction, just to see him for a moment. But she couldn’t take the chance. She knew that he’d be waiting, watching for her to slip.

Between classes it was more difficult, and after fourth period Jay was waiting for her in the hallway. It was tough to see him there, face-to-face, hard to remain detached when he seemed so earnest, so sincere. His eyes were tired and red, and he looked defeated even before he spoke.

She tried to brush past him, but he stopped her, grabbing her hand and pulling her back. His touch was like liquid fire against her skin, and Violet cringed at the tingling awareness she felt as his fingers scalded her.

“Violet, please . . . just talk to me.”

But if seeing him had been difficult, hearing his voice was worse. It was raw and full of emotion. He sounded so . . .
so miserable
.

Like her.

But she couldn’t let him do this to her. She had to be stronger. “Jay, don’t. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.” She wanted to say
please
, to beg him to walk away in case she wasn’t able to, but she was afraid of that word. It was too soft, and she worried that it might reveal too much of what she felt in that moment, seeing him in person.

She pulled her hand out of his grip. And again she was mad at him for letting her go, despite her words and her actions. She didn’t turn back; she just left him standing there. But she knew he was watching her the same way she knew she wanted to turn around and take it all back.

She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care what he thought, or believed, because she loved him. And she needed him.

But she couldn’t. Because it did matter.

At lunch, Violet sat alone in her car so she wouldn’t risk running into Jay again.

She checked her phone for the thousandth time, to see if Sara Priest had called, and realized she was disappointed when there weren’t any new messages.

There was a part of her, and she wasn’t sure how small that part was anymore, that hoped Sara hadn’t given up on her just yet.

Recently, Violet had time to think about everything that had happened, including how Sara Priest had come into her life . . . through her discovery of the boy. And suddenly things seemed a little clearer, which should have been frightening, disturbing even, considering that the rest of her life was such a mess. Instead it made perfect sense to Violet.

The way she’d reacted the past several months: withdrawing, keeping Jay—and everyone else around her—at arm’s length, afraid to let them get too close.

She’d been so afraid of letting anyone else get hurt because of her.

But now she knew; now she understood it wasn’t her fault. None of it. She couldn’t help what she did, what she was capable of, any more than if she’d been born
without
the ability to find the dead. It was just a part of who she was.

And Violet didn’t want to ignore that part of her anymore. There was nothing wrong with it . . .
with her
. In fact, it might even be useful. It
had
been useful.

And she remembered how she’d felt before, when she’d searched for a serial killer. Like she had a purpose.

She’d felt good. Valuable. Alive.

She wanted
that
again. She wanted to find a way to recapture those feelings, to have a reason for her “gift.”

She didn’t want to hide anymore or to have secrets, at least not from those she trusted.

Maybe Rafe was right; maybe Sara Priest could be that solution.

Unless Sara wasn’t interested in Violet any longer. Unless Sara Priest had grown tired of waiting for her to decide.

But Violet couldn’t worry about that yet. She had other things to figure out first.

Like, just who
were
those she could trust?

Violet waited in her last class for as long as she could before venturing out into the nearly deserted hallways, and then outside, to the parking lot. The grounds were quiet—eerily so—but Violet preferred it that way.

The very idea of bumping into Megan, or just seeing her in passing, made Violet’s skin crawl.

So when Violet heard a voice calling her name,
a girl’s voice
, her legs suddenly felt weak. Until she recognized the abrasive tone.

Without turning, she smiled to herself as she waited for Chelsea to catch up.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me?
God
, where’s the freaking fire?” Chelsea complained with exaggerated breathlessness. And then she immediately forgot she was upset. “Hey, you don’t mind if I catch a ride, do you? I rode with Jules this morning, but she’s staying after with Claire to work on their science paper, and I really don’t want to hang out with them in the library. Plus, you know Mrs. Hertzog hates me. She’ll just spend the whole time shushing me.”

“No,”
Violet drawled sarcastically, walking toward her car and trying to keep a straight face. “Not you, Chels. You’re as quiet as a mouse.”

“I know, right? She’s crazy.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets, shrugging indifferently as she kept pace with Violet. And then her eyes widened. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper from her right-hand pocket. She held it out to Violet. “Jay asked me to give this to you.”

Violet saw her name written in Jay’s handwriting on the outside of the note, and her heart squeezed. She didn’t want to take it, but ignoring it, leaving it in Chelsea’s hand, wasn’t really an option either. She grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket.

Chelsea’s usual flippant expression faded and she leaned in close to Violet, almost as if she were afraid someone might see this side of her. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s been all
sad doll
lately too.”

“What are you talking about, Chels?”

Chelsea stopped walking and stared at Violet.

“Jay. I’m talking about Jay, Vi. I thought you might want to know that you’re not the only one who’s hurting. He’s been moping around school, making it hard to even look at him. He’s messed up . . . bad.” Just like the other night in Violet’s bedroom, something close to . . .
sympathy
crossed Chelsea’s face.

Violet wasn’t sure how to respond.

Fortunately sympathetic Chelsea didn’t stick around for long. She seemed to get a grip on herself, and like a switch had been flipped, the awkward moment was over and her friend was back, Chelsea-style: “I swear, every time I see him, I’m halfway afraid he’s gonna start crying like a girl or ask to borrow a tampon or something. Seriously, Violet, it’s disgusting. Really. Only you can make it stop.
Please
make it stop.”

Violet didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help smiling at the absurd picture that Chelsea painted of Jay. And even though she knew it wasn’t very mature to feel smug at a time like this, especially over the delusional image concocted by her mentally unhinged friend, she couldn’t help herself; she laughed anyway.

Still, she didn’t want to talk about it with Chelsea. Not even the kinder, more sensitive Chelsea. “I’m sure he’s fine, Chels. And if he’s not, he’ll get over it.”

Chelsea just shook her head. “All I’m saying is . . . I’m here if you want to tell me about it. . . .” She left the offer hanging there.

And Violet felt guilty for not taking her up on it. She wished she
could
talk about what had happened. She wished she could tell Chelsea everything, to explain what she and Jay were fighting about, to tell her about Megan, and what she’d seen at Mike’s house that night. But she couldn’t. It was too tangled together with her ability.

So she said nothing, and tried to ignore the disappointment on Chelsea’s face.

When Chelsea realized that she wasn’t getting anywhere with Violet, she changed the subject, but Violet found the new topic even more painful than discussing Jay. “I got the cutest jacket to wear up to the cabin next weekend,” Chelsea gushed. “You know, warm but not
too
warm, so maybe Mike will have to use some of his body heat to keep me from getting hypothermia.”

But Violet had stopped listening. All she could hear was the rush of blood coursing through her ears.

Her friends were still planning to go to the cabin. Of course they were. How could Violet have expected otherwise?

They reached her car, and Violet clumsily got inside, reaching over to unlock the door for Chelsea. She tried to concentrate on what Chelsea was saying. She wanted to interrupt Chelsea long enough to ask the questions that she knew she would never dare utter:
Was Jay still going? Was he planning to go without her?

And:
Was Megan?

Violet’s fingers tingled as she gripped the steering wheel. She struggled to remember what she was supposed to do next, and then it came to her. She wrapped her fingers around the key and twisted it. Her car rumbled to life.

Chelsea was unaware of the punishing emptiness that crept over Violet, stealing her resolve and tackling her spirit. Violet stopped listening as Chelsea prattled on, and the words buzzed in the air until they reached Chelsea’s house.

Violet remembered to say good-bye, but it sounded bleak and empty in her throat, leaving a caustic trail over her tongue.

She felt as if she were vanishing, like a shadow sitting behind the wheel of her own car, and she wondered how her friend couldn’t notice that. How she could just ignore it.

It wasn’t until Chelsea stopped at her front door and gave Violet a strange look that Violet realized she was still sitting there, staring at nothing.

Chelsea waved awkwardly.

Violet blinked, reminding herself that it was time to leave. She put her car into gear and drove away, not bothering to wave back.

If she had, Chelsea wouldn’t have seen her anyway.

Violet had become invisible.

Violet stopped at the Java Hut on her way home, desperately needing
not
to be by herself right now. She had hoped that the chaos of the after-school hangout might help. That somehow the noise might penetrate, even obliterate, the nothingness that was smothering her.

But when she stopped her car and looked out the windshield at the crowded parking lot, she hesitated.

She knew she wouldn’t run into Chelsea, who she’d just dropped off at home. Or Jules or Claire, who were still at school working on their science project. Or Jay.

It was Wednesday, and Jay worked on Wednesdays.

So why was she suddenly so uncertain? What was her problem?

She didn’t know, but now that she was there, seeing her classmates coming and going from the busy café, it was the last place in the world she wanted to be. The problem was, she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. So she just sat and watched them go about their lives.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, or how long she’d been staring at the entrance, but she recognized the moment that her heart started to beat again. It was the instant she saw the girl walking through the front door of the Java Hut.

Megan was pretty. Small and fragile-looking, and for a split second, for just the briefest of moments, Violet could understand why Jay would have a hard time believing that this delicate wisp of a girl could ever be capable of doing the things Violet had accused her of.

She exited the café, followed by two of her friends, who, by comparison, made Megan appear pixielike. That contrast made Megan’s stilted movements seem even more oddly out of place. She gave the impression that she would move gracefully, fluidly, like a dancer, but instead she came across as guarded and cautious. She kept her head low, her arms drawn in tightly, protectively, around her. She appeared frightened. Like a hunted animal.