Desires of the Dead
Page 51
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So why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she told him about her meeting at the FBI?
It didn’t really matter now; Jay wouldn’t be around anymore.
“I guess I just don’t know what to do, and you seem to have some of the answers.”
Rafe’s eyebrows rose teasingly. “You think I have the answers?”
Violet shrugged. “Well, you and Sara.”
“And you don’t want to talk to her.” It wasn’t a question this time. Rafe leaned back as he crossed his feet lazily at the ankles, but he wasn’t fooling Violet; she knew she had his attention.
She also knew she’d have to tread carefully; Rafe didn’t seem like the sharing type.
But they did have something in common, whether either of them was willing to admit it or not. Sara Priest was proof of that. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to talk about you, and I don’t want to talk about me. So where does that leave us exactly?” She cocked her head to the side.
Rafe lifted his shoulder. “Right back where we started, I guess.”
“That’s a bunch of crap,” Violet insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know way more than you’re letting on. Like, why is Sara so interested in me? What is it that she thinks she knows?”
Rafe leaned forward, no longer feigning indifference. “You tell me, Violet. Obviously there’s . . . something. Otherwise neither of us would be here in the first place. You’d be safe at home in your cozy little farm town and I’d still be in bed.” His face was expressionless, but Violet saw the taunting gleam in his indigo eyes. “If you want to swap secrets, then you go first.”
Violet squeezed her lips together, worrying and biting them until she tasted her own blood. She considered what he was telling her, and recognized the corner she’d let him back her into. He had her. Of course, he knew that. Violet wasn’t going to reveal what she could do . . . to tell him of her talent for seeking out bodies. And he damn sure wasn’t about to confide in her.
She exhaled, releasing the breath she’d been holding as she’d waited for him to disclose something . . . anything. “So do you work for her? Is that the deal with you two?”
Rafe laughed. It was the first time Violet had ever heard him laugh. The sound was quiet and low, just like his voice. “I work with her. Big difference.” He reached in his pocket and handed her another business card, just like the others. “If you have any other questions about Sara, I think you need to call her.”
Violet glared at him, but she knew enough to realize that they’d reached an impasse.
Rafe reached forward then and pushed the coffee across the table. “I got this for you. Double-shot vanilla latte. But it’s probably getting cold by now.”
Violet wrinkled her brow. “How’d you know what to order?” She picked up the cup. It was still warm.
He shrugged. “Just a hunch. Most girls like vanilla.”
Violet looked at him dubiously. That was pretty much the faultiest logic she’d ever heard. Most girls liked a lot of different things: chocolate, caramel, nonfat milk, whole milk, whipped cream, iced coffees . . . the options were endless. How could he possibly have pegged her for a vanilla-latte kind of girl?
Lucky guess, she supposed as she took a sip. She got up to leave, recognizing that their conversation was over.
But Rafe reached out to stop her, careful this time to touch her jacket instead of her skin. “Oh, and Violet?” This time he was smiling, kind of. “Happy birthday.”
Chapter 21
When Violet walked through the front door, the house was filled with the smells of food. Real food, the kind that didn’t have anything to do with the freezer section of the grocery store. That could mean only one thing . . . that someone other than her mom had prepared her birthday dinner.
Violet didn’t care about the who; it was the what that had her mouth watering as she closed the door behind her.
The delicate scent of rosemary mingled with the heady aroma of garlic and lemons. She knew immediately that her dad had been cooking, because it was Violet’s favorite—at least of the homemade variety—lemon chicken.
Suddenly she was famished. And even the deterrent of an evening with her family—or anyone, for that matter—wasn’t enough to keep her appetite at bay.
She could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and she knew that she was already late for her own party. Thankfully she was able to slip quietly upstairs to change and freshen up. She felt like crap after driving all the way to the city and back, trying to get information from Rafe. And she knew she probably looked it too. She pinched her cheeks, to give the illusion that there was still blood pumping somewhere within her body, and quickly brushed her teeth.
When she decided it was the best she could do on short notice, she headed back downstairs, where her mom was waiting at the bottom of the staircase.
“Happy birthday, Vi!” She grabbed Violet, wrapping her arms around her.
“Mom, have you been drinking?” she scolded, only half-joking as she struggled to break free. She could hear the others in the kitchen, chairs scraping and voices coming out to greet her.
“No,” her mom scoffed, as if the suggestion was absurd. “I’m just—” She started to say something, but then changed her mind.
Worried, Violet thought, finishing the sentence in her head. And she wondered what her parents must have thought over the past couple of days, with Violet skipping school and hiding in her bedroom, barely eating, and then disappearing this morning.
It didn’t really matter now; Jay wouldn’t be around anymore.
“I guess I just don’t know what to do, and you seem to have some of the answers.”
Rafe’s eyebrows rose teasingly. “You think I have the answers?”
Violet shrugged. “Well, you and Sara.”
“And you don’t want to talk to her.” It wasn’t a question this time. Rafe leaned back as he crossed his feet lazily at the ankles, but he wasn’t fooling Violet; she knew she had his attention.
She also knew she’d have to tread carefully; Rafe didn’t seem like the sharing type.
But they did have something in common, whether either of them was willing to admit it or not. Sara Priest was proof of that. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to talk about you, and I don’t want to talk about me. So where does that leave us exactly?” She cocked her head to the side.
Rafe lifted his shoulder. “Right back where we started, I guess.”
“That’s a bunch of crap,” Violet insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know way more than you’re letting on. Like, why is Sara so interested in me? What is it that she thinks she knows?”
Rafe leaned forward, no longer feigning indifference. “You tell me, Violet. Obviously there’s . . . something. Otherwise neither of us would be here in the first place. You’d be safe at home in your cozy little farm town and I’d still be in bed.” His face was expressionless, but Violet saw the taunting gleam in his indigo eyes. “If you want to swap secrets, then you go first.”
Violet squeezed her lips together, worrying and biting them until she tasted her own blood. She considered what he was telling her, and recognized the corner she’d let him back her into. He had her. Of course, he knew that. Violet wasn’t going to reveal what she could do . . . to tell him of her talent for seeking out bodies. And he damn sure wasn’t about to confide in her.
She exhaled, releasing the breath she’d been holding as she’d waited for him to disclose something . . . anything. “So do you work for her? Is that the deal with you two?”
Rafe laughed. It was the first time Violet had ever heard him laugh. The sound was quiet and low, just like his voice. “I work with her. Big difference.” He reached in his pocket and handed her another business card, just like the others. “If you have any other questions about Sara, I think you need to call her.”
Violet glared at him, but she knew enough to realize that they’d reached an impasse.
Rafe reached forward then and pushed the coffee across the table. “I got this for you. Double-shot vanilla latte. But it’s probably getting cold by now.”
Violet wrinkled her brow. “How’d you know what to order?” She picked up the cup. It was still warm.
He shrugged. “Just a hunch. Most girls like vanilla.”
Violet looked at him dubiously. That was pretty much the faultiest logic she’d ever heard. Most girls liked a lot of different things: chocolate, caramel, nonfat milk, whole milk, whipped cream, iced coffees . . . the options were endless. How could he possibly have pegged her for a vanilla-latte kind of girl?
Lucky guess, she supposed as she took a sip. She got up to leave, recognizing that their conversation was over.
But Rafe reached out to stop her, careful this time to touch her jacket instead of her skin. “Oh, and Violet?” This time he was smiling, kind of. “Happy birthday.”
Chapter 21
When Violet walked through the front door, the house was filled with the smells of food. Real food, the kind that didn’t have anything to do with the freezer section of the grocery store. That could mean only one thing . . . that someone other than her mom had prepared her birthday dinner.
Violet didn’t care about the who; it was the what that had her mouth watering as she closed the door behind her.
The delicate scent of rosemary mingled with the heady aroma of garlic and lemons. She knew immediately that her dad had been cooking, because it was Violet’s favorite—at least of the homemade variety—lemon chicken.
Suddenly she was famished. And even the deterrent of an evening with her family—or anyone, for that matter—wasn’t enough to keep her appetite at bay.
She could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and she knew that she was already late for her own party. Thankfully she was able to slip quietly upstairs to change and freshen up. She felt like crap after driving all the way to the city and back, trying to get information from Rafe. And she knew she probably looked it too. She pinched her cheeks, to give the illusion that there was still blood pumping somewhere within her body, and quickly brushed her teeth.
When she decided it was the best she could do on short notice, she headed back downstairs, where her mom was waiting at the bottom of the staircase.
“Happy birthday, Vi!” She grabbed Violet, wrapping her arms around her.
“Mom, have you been drinking?” she scolded, only half-joking as she struggled to break free. She could hear the others in the kitchen, chairs scraping and voices coming out to greet her.
“No,” her mom scoffed, as if the suggestion was absurd. “I’m just—” She started to say something, but then changed her mind.
Worried, Violet thought, finishing the sentence in her head. And she wondered what her parents must have thought over the past couple of days, with Violet skipping school and hiding in her bedroom, barely eating, and then disappearing this morning.
