Desires of the Dead
Page 45

Violet loved the wind.
She tried to stay focused on her reading assignment, but the noises outside her window beckoned her. She closed the book, setting it aside. She couldn’t just sit inside on such a great afternoon.
In no time, she had changed and was making her way along the same path she’d run hundreds of times before. She skipped her iPod in favor of the sounds of the wind rushing past her, whipping strands of her own hair against her face, gathering leaves and debris and rustling them along the ground.
For the first time in weeks, Violet allowed her mind to empty as she ran with complete abandon. The air that blew around her was brisk; she could smell the chill, and she inhaled it deeply. But as long as she kept moving, she stayed warm. Only the exposed skin of her cheeks tingled from the icy drafts.
Overhead, branches creaked in protest as they were bent too far by sudden gusts. Violet looked up and watched the treetops rocking wildly above her. The gales were getting stronger as the sun moved lower against the sky.
She continued to run, appreciating the power of the mounting storm.
Somewhere nearby, a branch snapped, and Violet slowed, realizing just how hard the wind was blowing. The sky grew dusky as twilight descended, casting a shadowy hue across the forest as the trees above her shivered and waved.
She was no longer certain she was safe beneath the canopy of evergreens. They were no match against the sheer force of the escalating wind. She knew where she was, and she knew that the fastest way out of the woods was to move off trail and to head toward the road.
She stepped through the brush, moving as quickly as she could. She passed rotting stumps and climbed across fallen trees. She wasn’t far, and as long as there was still light, she could find her way easily.
The hem of her running pants snagged on a gnarled branch that tangled through the undergrowth, and Violet tugged her leg. The wind continued to pound her, whipping her face as she leaned into it now, keeping her head low.
As she bent to free her pant leg, she saw something flicker. Strange that she noticed it at all, and she turned her head toward it, squinting. After a moment, the same white light seemed to come out of nowhere. A blink.
Whatever it was, it had Violet’s attention and she moved in that direction, away from the main road. She could see where it was coming from, flashing from between the trees, and as darkness fell, it became clearer, easier to locate. But as she neared it, she questioned what it was she thought she’d seen.
Ahead of her, Violet approached the back of a house. She walked slowly, watchfully, until she was practically standing in a backyard.
Night seemed to drop in suddenly, leaching all of the remaining light until she felt as if she were inside a void, looking out. The house was bleak and weary-looking, even from behind, and she realized, after just a moment of studying it, that she’d seen this house before.
Inside the lights were off but, behind the glass, from between the curtains of a single window, the flickering continued, sending broken fragments of light into the blackness that encircled Violet. She blinked, recognizing what the sputtering light reminded her of, and she wondered if there was a television on somewhere inside the house.
The wind blistered her back, blasting her and tangling its icy fingers through her hair. Another branch, this one practically right above Violet, cracked loudly. She jolted, feeling suddenly dizzy, but her eyes never left the window.
And then Violet realized why it couldn’t be the light from a TV that she was witnessing. She scanned the property, looking beyond it to the street on the other side.
There was blackness for as far as she could see. No streetlights, no signals in the distance. Nothing.
The electricity was out. The windstorm had taken out all the power to the area.
And inside the house the white flash burst again.
Violet knew what it was. She recognized it from the night she’d woken in her house. In the dark it was almost unmistakable. It was the imprint that matched the dead cat.
Whoever had killed the animal was in there.
She stumbled backward, trying to create some distance as she made her way toward the road . . . and away from Mike’s house.
By the time Violet got home, she’d had time to think. More than enough time.
She’d been cautious along the darkened streets, where the wind wasn’t filtered, where she wasn’t protected by the layers of trees and brush, and some of the gusts had nearly knocked her off her feet. Small trees and branches littered the roadways like an obstacle course, and they’d continued to fall as she picked her way among them toward her house.
The power was out all the way home, and the blackness was oppressive. Just one more obstacle forcing her to pay extra care to every step she took.
Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just seen. The lone bursts of light amid a canvas of shadows, flickering from that one window and reminding Violet that someone had been stalking her. Leaving her messages . . . and worse.
And now she knew who that person was.
She’d known immediately, without question, that it wasn’t Mike. She’d seen him too many times since the cat had been left for her; she would have recognized the imprint on him easily. And she would never forget the feminine handwriting on the note, the pink paper and the scented pen.
She also remembered seeing Mike’s little sister flirting with Jay the only other time she’d been at Mike’s house, when Megan hadn’t realized that Violet was waiting in the car, watching them.
The very thought of the pretty girl killing that poor little cat made Violet’s skin crawl. She couldn’t imagine what kind of twisted human being could wrap their fingers around an animal’s neck and snap it, for any reason . . . let alone to send some sort of sick message.