Dead Silence
Page 60

But Jay was shaking his head. “No, Vi. You’re wrong. You’ve got this all wrong.” And suddenly they were no longer standing apart; they were no longer separated by the breadth of their heartbeats. Jay was squeezing her against him, crushing her. Not hugging or stroking her, but crushing her. She felt his fingers clawing at the back of her shirt, balling the thin fabric in his fists as he clutched her to him, and she could feel the days and weeks and months of frustration and fear and whatever else he’d been holding back come pouring out of him as he groaned achingly into her curls . . .
. . . And he crushed her.
She might have complained—needing to breathe and all—but instead she remained still, and silent, waiting for him to regain himself as he rocked and squeezed her. She concentrated on the fact that he was touching her at long last, and that through the small gasps she was able to take, his T-shirt smelled of car grease and Irish Spring soap, exactly like it should smell. Like him. And that she’d missed that smell more than she’d ever thought possible.
After a few agonizing minutes, he exhaled, dropping his chin against the top of her head. “I want you to lie. You need to lie, Violet. Just not to me.”
She wanted to nod and tell him she would, that she would lie her ass off . . . whatever he wanted her to do as long as he’d keep holding her like this. And maybe if he’d take his shirt off too. But she knew that wasn’t an option. “I can’t. No more lies. No more secrets, Jay. Besides, Chelsea already knows. There’s no going back now.”
He shook his head, but didn’t let go. “Fine,” he said, and she swore his grip tightened again when he said it. “But that’s it. Swear to me that Chelsea’s the last one, you won’t tell anyone else.”
“I can’t do that either. I might have to tell someone else,” she said, but she was grinning now because it was hard to take him seriously when he’d let go of her shirt and his hand was moving low across the base of her spine. He was making it hard to think about anything but the path his hand was taking. She wiggled against him, and he groaned again, but this time for an entirely different reason than he had before.
She stopped then, realizing that she still had things she needed to tell him, and if she didn’t tell him now, she’d feel like she was still keeping secrets from him. “Wait,” she said, taking the barest step back and reaching for his hand, forcing him to pay attention. “I need you to know something. My imprint . . . it’s gone.”
It was his turn to go motionless, his hand falling away from hers. “Gone? How is that . . . ? How?”
Without waiting, Violet told him, before she could change her mind. “It was Rafe. Rafe got rid of it for me.” She explained to him about her grandmother’s journals, about the way the echoes and imprints vanished when the heart was separated from the body. She described what Rafe had done to Caine’s body for her.
She told him, too, about Dr. Lee, his involvement in the Circle of Seven, the sleeping pills he’d been giving her. Everything.
And Jay listened. Wordlessly.
When she was finished, she reached up and absently smoothed a stray hair away from his forehead. He stopped her, catching her hand and her awareness. “Why do you think he did it?” he asked, and Violet strained to see him better in the dull light.
“Dr. Lee?” she asked back, being intentionally obtuse. She knew exactly who he meant.
“Rafe.” He said the name with obvious distaste. “Why do you think he would risk so much for you? He’d get in a lot of trouble if he got caught.”
Violet shrugged, still warring with that part of herself that wanted to avoid the truth. But she couldn’t be that girl anymore, not with Jay. Shaking her head, as if her internal struggle had reached the surface, she said, “For a lot of reasons, I guess. Because he’s my teammate. Because he’s my friend.” She shrugged again as she glanced away from him. “But mostly because he likes me. I think he’s always liked me.” Her voice had gone soft, and was muffled by the river behind them.
Shame filled her like the icy waters beyond.
She remembered once, when she and Jay had come to the river on a clear May day—far too early in the year for the sun to have warmed the waters that were just beginning to melt off the glaciers, trickling down from the mountains. But they’d decided it was warm enough to go swimming, and they’d searched the shoreline for a good spot, finally finding a place where the water pooled away from the rocks, where it was still and deep and calm.
They’d stripped down to their underwear under the late spring sun, and had climbed up into a tree that hung over the spot. Without so much as testing the water with their toes, they’d clutched each other’s hands, and on the count of three, they had jumped.
If their parents had known what they’d done that day, they’d have been grounded for life.
But Violet could still remember how the too-cold water had felt when they’d plunged into it. The way a million frost-tipped needles had skewered her skin all at once, making her want to gasp even as water filled her nose and mouth. The way her lungs had compressed in on themselves, feeling as if they would shut down and might never breathe air again. The way every muscle in her body had felt paralyzed and her legs had refused to kick even when she’d started sinking toward the bottom.
She felt that way now. That’s how the shame of not telling Jay about Rafe’s feelings sooner felt . . . like needles and squeezed lungs and useless muscles.