The Last Echo
Page 7

“So you think this shrink stuff is really working?” She ignored the skepticism in his voice. For the most part, he’d been pretty supportive of her work with the team, not complaining too much about the time she’d been spending with them as she tried to figure out if her ability was truly useful or not. Especially how much time she spent with Rafe. But she knew how he felt about her seeing a psychiatrist: She didn’t need therapy; there wasn’t anything wrong with her. He thought it was a waste of time for her to see a doctor whose job it was to treat “crazy people.”
Violet couldn’t help finding it sweet that he didn’t consider her at least a little crazy, her being the girl who found dead bodies and all. That was enough to unbalance anyone, wasn’t it?
She nodded. “I do, Jay. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this in control before a body was buried.”
Jay mulled that over for a second, and then asked, “Is this a case you’re working on”—his eyes shifted around, making sure no one was listening to them—“with your team?”
Violet thought about the prickling sensation and squeezed her fists. “You know I’m not supposed to talk about it.” She nudged him with her shoulder then, and grinned deliberately up at him. “But yeah, it is.”
Behind her, she heard the coach’s whistle and knew she’d run out of time. The idea of going back to basketball drills made her stomach tighten, but she stood up on her tiptoes and leaned into Jay, whispering against his cheek. “I got your note last night. Would’ve been better if I’d have found you in my bed instead.”
Jay groaned and grabbed her by the shoulders. There was the hint of accusation buried behind his breathy chuckle as he set her away from him. “You’re playing with fire, Vi. You shouldn’t tease me at school. Besides, I think if I hid in your room, your father—check that, your mother—would skin me alive.”
Violet heard the coach shouting her name, and she knew she’d be getting a demerit for slacking off. But she didn’t care.
She flashed him her most wolfish smile. “Next time, you should totally take that chance. It could’ve been fun,” she promised before sauntering away.
Attraction
HE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CORNER, KEEPING his head low, his eyes down. He didn’t want to draw attention. Not today. Not yet. Not because he didn’t want to be seen, but because it didn’t matter. Even if they saw him, they wouldn’t be worried.
He took a bite of his sandwich, turkey on whole wheat, hold the mayo. Same thing he’d ordered every day for the past week. Same order, same restaurant, same table. He set the sandwich down again and lifted the newspaper, holding it in front of his face as he dared a quick glance at the girl behind the counter.
She smiled sheepishly at the man she was helping, her gaze darting away quickly when he smiled back at her, her hand nervously lifting to tuck a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear as she turned to get his change.
Even from where he sat, he recognized the gesture, the difficulty maintaining eye contact, the awkward glances and tight-lipped smiles. The girl was shy—painfully so.
That’s what made her perfect for him. That’s why he’d been coming here, day after day, working so hard to make her notice him, to make her comfortable with him. Hoping to coax a real smile from her. An effortless, carefree smile.
He understood her. He could help her. If she let him, he might even be able to fix her.
Still, he hated watching as her hands brushed over theirs, as they passed her money and credit cards and she handed them coffees and bags filled with pastries and sandwiches. He felt an instant surge of jealousy. It was familiar and deep and painful. That was the same, too, the resentment he felt when he watched her interact with the customers.
No, not all the customers—the men who came in to see her. He didn’t know why she encouraged them, why she let them come, time and again. Why she tried so hard to smile at them, when he knew . . . that what she really wanted was him.
The newsprint crumpled in his fists, and he dropped his gaze again, breathing deeply, reminding himself that this was her job. Reminding himself that she had to make a living.
He glanced up again, quickly, briefly, feeling relieved as he saw the man take his white paper bag and step away from the counter.
He had no business being jealous, he told himself. She didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or anything.
His girlfriend was gone. He’d broken up with her, and now he was alone again. Probably why he was feeling so lonely, so bitter.
He took another bite of his sandwich, setting the newspaper aside, but just for the moment.
He suddenly felt claustrophobic within the space of the café, like he needed to get outside. He felt anxious thinking about the girl behind the counter, thinking about his ex-girlfriend, and glancing at the front page of the paper out of the corner of his eye. He stared instead at his lap, trying to get his emotions back under control.
And that was when he saw it, the flash of pale purple beneath his right thumbnail. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, that he’d missed it when he was cleaning up.
Keeping his hands hidden beneath the table, he used the nail of his left index finger to dig at the polish, cursing himself for being so careless, so reckless. He hoped that no one else had noticed it. He ran through the list of people he’d come in contact with already that day.
He retraced his steps in his head, trying to remember who he’d spoken to, who might have had the opportunity to see his hands up close.