The Last Echo (13 page)

Violet glared at his back, and the word
jerk
rose to the surface, but she managed to swallow it. He was right; they’d come here for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with either of them. “Fine,” she managed. “I’m right behind you.”

Standing beneath the red awning, Violet watched Rafe for longer than she should have. She doubted she’d ever understand him; he confused her like no one she’d ever met before. And, for some godforsaken reason, he also intrigued her. She wanted to know why he kept everyone at such a distance. And why Sam had said that she was different, because right now, she was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. She sort of thought what everyone else did, that Rafe was an ass.

She turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot where her car was parked. It was then that she noticed it, that same strange sensation she’d felt the day before. That same stinging sensation that prickled more than just the hairs of her nose.

That found its way all the way down inside of her.

Stronger today, even, than it had been before. Stronger and more enticing.

And she thought she knew why.

Because today the sleeping pills were finally wearing off. Today her head was clearer, her senses were more alert. Her ability was unhindered.

And this sensation was an echo of some sort.

She glanced around, searching for some hint as to where it might be coming from . . .
who
it might be coming from. But no one person looked any different from anyone else. No one seemed unusually interested in her. Everyone kept moving, shifting and pushing along the sidewalks.

From somewhere behind her, Violet recognized the noisy rumble of Rafe’s motorcycle revving, and then she heard the steady drone of his engine as he pulled into traffic. She had the vague realization that he was leaving without her, that he was going to beat her to the Center, but she stayed where she was, rooted to her spot as foot traffic continued around her.

Just when she thought it might be getting closer—the irritating sensation growing more intense—Violet heard the cutting blare of a horn coming from down the street. Coming from the direction Rafe had been headed. The sound was too long and was followed immediately by a distinctly abrasive metallic scraping that sent icy prickles racing up Violet’s spine.

She went completely and utterly rigid. And then she was running, her feet pounding viciously against the pavement beneath her. She shoved her way through the crowds that were already starting to form, already trying to bear witness to someone else’s tragedy.

Around her, Violet heard sharp gasps and the frantic rise of murmurs melding together into a buzzing cacophony. All the while, she fervently prayed that it wasn’t what she thought it was. That it wasn’t
who
she thought it was.

But when she burst through the crowd, she saw it: Rafe’s motorcycle lay completely still at the center of the intersection. A green sedan that had been coming from the opposite direction was also sitting in the intersection, stopped almost directly on top of the bike. Violet watched as its driver emerged dazedly from her vehicle, blinking furiously as she reached up and gingerly touched her face. Angry red abrasions tore across the skin of her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose. Inside the woman’s car, her air bag had deployed.

Violet scanned the asphalt—the chaos of the scene—searching for any sign of Rafe. When she didn’t see him right away, she felt a moment of relief, a lightening in the center of her chest as she figured he must have been okay after all. Maybe he’d walked away, he’d somehow come away from the crash completely unscathed, and was standing somewhere in the throng of people . . . that derisive smirk on his face.

It wasn’t until she spotted the cluster of people congregating on the other side of the woman’s sedan, when she recognized the all too familiar toe of Rafe’s scuffed black boot, that she realized just how far he’d been thrown during impact. Panic nearly choked her as she began shoving people out of her way, clawing past strangers who stood blocking her path. She ignored the sharp looks and indignant mutters as she hurtled forward, desperate to reach him.

She slowed when she got close, numbly finding her way to the center of the crowd now. Her hands shook at her sides, and when she saw him sprawled in front of her,
lifeless
, she fell to her knees. Above her, she could hear at least two people talking into their cell phones, reporting the incident and relaying the events of Rafe’s accident—and his injuries—to the authorities.

She tried not to listen as words like
unresponsive
and
labored breathing
infiltrated her consciousness. She dazedly watched as a woman expertly lifted his slack arm and pressed her fingers to his wrist. After a moment, the woman glanced up at a man on his cell phone and said the words
thready pulse
.

“Rafe.” Violet was now shaking all over, but she ignored the others, her voice tearing out of her in strident shreds. “Rafe, can you hear me?” She wanted to reach for him, to wrap him in her arms and rock him, to promise him that everything would be all right. But seeing him there, his arms and legs splayed limply around him, his eyes unblinking—he looked too damaged to touch. So instead, she ran her fingertip along the brim of his helmet, grateful he’d been wearing it. “Rafe,” she uttered on a tortured sob.

A hand gripped her shoulder. “Young lady.” The man on the cell phone stared down at her, the handset of his phone gripped firmly against his jaw. “Do you know him? Do you know who he is?” he repeated.

Violet nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the boy lying in front of her.

“What’s his name?” the man asked again, his fingers digging in harder this time.

“It’s Rafe,” Violet answered absently, a tear slipping down her cheek and falling onto Rafe’s leather jacket as she bent over him, silently begging him to wake up, to open his eyes and tell her he was okay. “His name is Rafe.”

“And his last name?”

Violet blinked, frowning as she willed herself to concentrate, willed herself to remember. What
was
his last name? Had she ever even heard it before? Finally, she tore her eyes away from Rafe’s limp form and stared up at the man as she wiped her chin with her sleeve. “I don’t know,” she confessed hollowly.

THE EMERGENCY ROOM WAS CHAOTIC, EVEN ON
a Saturday afternoon, practically combusting with echoes. Violet huddled farther into her chair, trying her best to block out the rush of sensory inputs that were both real—those that everyone around her could sense, moans and the sounds of crying babies, howls of both laughter and of pain—and those that only she could distinguish.

She hugged herself tighter, wishing once more that someone would just come out and tell her how Rafe was. It had been hours already, and she just wanted to know he was going to be okay.

She glanced at the clock on the wall above the admissions desk only to realize that barely five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked it. She hated being here alone.

The whoosh of the automatic doors drew her notice, as they had every time they opened to let someone in or out, but this time she jolted to her feet when she saw who stepped inside. She left the isolation of her seat in the corner to meet Sara halfway.

“I’ve left you a dozen messages.” Violet fumbled over her words. “It’s Rafe. We were at The Mecca . . . it’s the café where the girl worked . . . Casey Atkins . . . and when we were leaving . . .” Violet hesitated, not quite sure how to continue or how much information to give. “I didn’t see it happen,” she finally said, her vision blurring as she glanced at Sara. Sara’s own eyes were ringed with dark shadows and her hair was rumpled as if she’d just awakened, even though it was well past noon.

“The woman thought she had the right of way . . . she came right at him . . .” Violet explained, reaching for Sara’s hand, not sure what she expected from her.

She was surprised when Sara’s cold fingers clutched hers in a viselike grip. “Where is he now? Have you talked to anyone? How’s he doing?” Sara assaulted Violet with her trademark no-nonsense, rapid-fire questions.

“Last I heard, they were taking him up for an MRI. But they won’t tell me anything else. They’ll only talk to his family.”

Sara released Violet’s hand. She opened her small handbag and began scouring through it, searching for something. Violet realized she’d never seen Sara in anything other than her work clothes before—suits, skirts, heels, starched shirts. She took a moment to examine this casual, off-hours Sara who wore black yoga pants and a gray pullover sweatshirt that was easily two sizes too big for her. Sara found her wallet and pulled it from her purse as she strode toward the admissions desk, to the same stern-faced woman who’d denied Violet access just minutes earlier.

“Do you know how to reach his parents?” Violet asked hopefully, following right on Sara’s heels. Maybe now they could finally get some answers.

Sara spoke in a clipped voice over her shoulder. “Violet, you’ll have to wait out here.” And then she dropped her driver’s license on the counter in front of the desk clerk. “I need to speak to someone about a patient who was brought in.” Violet wondered why she didn’t flash a badge or something . . . anything to try to get some information out of the unsmiling woman. And then Sara spoke again, no longer paying attention to Violet. “His name is Rafe Priest,” she said. “He’s my brother.”

Violet was still letting everything sink in, feeling more than a little blindsided by what Sara had told the admissions lady about being Rafe’s sister. Low voices around her buzzed of car accidents and heart attacks and sick children and broken limbs. She tried her best to tune out their words—along with everything else she could sense.

And then there was that other thing . . . Sara was Rafe’s sister? How was that possible? How had she not known that? But it all made sense now. Why they seemed to understand each other so well.

Violet couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or him.

She’d settled back into her spot in the corner, leaning her head back and drawing her knees up to her chest, doing her best to get comfortable. She didn’t look up until she heard a familiar voice. Unfriendly and cold, but familiar nonetheless.

“Great,” the girl muttered venomously as Violet jerked her head up. “Figures you’d be here.”

Unlike Sara, who’d walked in looking harried and rumpled, Gemma dazzled beneath the glare of the emergency room lights, right down to her shimmery silver top and matching handbag. Violet glanced down at her own small purse with its pink bejeweled skull and crossbones. She’d never really cared before that it was outdated, even when her friends had made fun of it. Her grandmother had given it to her, one of the last gifts she’d given Violet before she died. The skull and crossbones were an inside joke about their shared ability.

Gemma quickly closed the distance between them, the heels of her ankle-length boots clicking on the white tiles in clipped, angry bursts. She perched delicately on the edge of one of the few open seats in the waiting room, next to Violet.

“How did you know we were here?” Violet asked, mystified by the other girl’s presence.

Impatiently Gemma stared at her. “Sara told me. So?” She scowled at Violet, her voice razor-sharp. “What happened?”

The vehemence in her voice made Violet wince, as if she’d just been slapped. Whatever she’d done to Gemma, the other girl had no intention of forgiving her anytime soon. But that so wasn’t the point, Violet thought, her own anger starting to simmer now. Here they were, sitting in the emergency room with no idea how Rafe was. She still had no word from Sara or the doctors who’d been working on him, and the longer they were gone, the more worried Violet became. “I don’t know what your problem is, Gemma, or what I ever did to you, but if you have something to say to me, then spit it out.”

Gemma glowered at Violet for a long, hate-filled moment; then finally, she shrugged. “It’s not really you,” she said at last, but her voice was no less caustic. She sighed as she crossed her long legs, cocking her head as her eyes narrowed to dark, perfectly lined slits. “I mean, technically it is, I suppose, but I doubt it’s your fault, really.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Gemma?”

Lowering her voice, Gemma’s lips curled into something between a snarl and a smile. “In case you didn’t know, I’m empathic,” she explained, her tone haughty, practically demeaning. And even though Violet wasn’t sure what the other girl was getting at, her hackles were up now. “Which means I can sense things from other people.”

Violet tried to mimic Gemma’s glare as she narrowed her eyes. “And your point is . . . ?”

“It means I absorb what others around me are feeling. And because of that, more than anyone else I’ve ever met, it’s hard to be around you.” She wrinkled her perky little nose, and Violet wanted to punch her in it, right then and there. “To put it frankly, Violet, you reek of death . . . and it’s revolting.”

Violet had no idea what to make of that. She’d been called a lot of things, been teased as a little girl for having curly hair and gangly legs, but she’d never thought about the implications of her own ability tainting her in that way. She was still gaping when Gemma suddenly jumped up from her seat and shot across the waiting room. At first Violet didn’t even realize what was happening; she thought she was the one who’d chased the other girl away. Her and her creepy ability.

I reek of death.
Not exactly the words every girl dreamed of hearing.

When she glanced in Gemma’s direction, she realized Sara was back, talking to Gemma. Violet stood on legs that felt far too unsteady and crossed the space between them. But she froze, her heart slamming against the walls of her chest, the moment she saw the stricken expression on Gemma’s face, and the streaks of mascara now tracing their way down her cheeks.

Lead pulled at Violet’s feet, weighing them down and pinning her to the ground. “What—what happened?” Violet stammered. “Is he . . . ?” She struggled for the right words, her voice causing Gemma to look up at her. The other girl swiped at her eyes, her expression turning suddenly fierce as she smeared her makeup even more. “Is he worse?” Violet asked at last.

Gemma shot Violet an angry look. “He’s fine.” The words sliced through the air. “He’s an asshole, but he’s fine.”

Sara put her hand on Gemma’s shoulder, her expression pained. “Gemma,” she warned before turning to Violet. Her brow creased. “He’s okay,” she explained to Violet, her voice patient. “He’s beaten up pretty bad, and they’ve got him somewhat sedated, but he’s going to be fine. He’s asking for you.”

Violet glanced uncomfortably at Gemma.

“Happy?” Gemma snapped. “You’re still the only one he wants to see.”

Sara headed toward the admissions desk, and Gemma reached for Violet’s arm, her fingers digging in viciously. “You’d better not hurt him,” she hissed under her breath. “I mean it. He doesn’t need anyone else hurting him.”

Violet stared blankly at Gemma’s formidable expression as Gemma’s grip finally loosened. She wondered where, exactly, the threat had come from. She had no intention of hurting Rafe; why would Gemma even say something like that?

She felt weird leaving the other girl behind as she followed Sara to the counter, where her ID was scanned and printed onto a sticker that she had to wear on her shirt.

Sara led her in back, and they stopped outside a sliding glass door with a huge number 33 on it. Violet had expected they’d both be going inside, but Sara smiled feebly. “Go ahead. I get to take him home later; I’ll spend time with him then.” It was strange to be reminded that she was his sister. Then Sara touched Violet’s arm, her face screwed into a mask of . . . something. Apprehension. Concern. Both, maybe. “Don’t upset him, okay, Violet? He’s been through a lot today, and he’s worn out. Just let him say what he needs to say so he can get some rest.”
In other words,
Violet thought,
don’t ask a lot of questions
.
Not yet, anyway.

Violet just nodded and left Sara standing outside as she entered the darkened room.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected: tubes down his throat, wires attached to noisy machines, full-body traction with casts and splints. But it wasn’t like that.

The room was quiet and the lights had been dimmed; there was just a small box light above his bed that cast a faint glow like an oversized night-light. Violet settled silently onto a rolling chair beside the metal-framed bed as she waited for Rafe to notice she was there.

His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even. She’d watched Jay sleep before, and he was always restless, his breathing irregular. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep, sometimes he twitched, but always he looked disheveled, messy.

Not Rafe, though. Rafe looked peaceful. His hand lay across his chest, and Violet could see the tubes from his IV protruding from the back of it. Two clear bags of fluid hung from the tall silver stand looming beside his bed.

She jumped when a machine at her side beeped softly and the blood pressure cuff strapped around his upper arm inflated automatically, registering his vital signs. She wondered if there were nurses watching from monitors at their station.

“You came.” Rafe’s voice was gravelly and sluggish. There was a quality buried within it that Violet had never heard before from Rafe. Something raw and hopeful. He smiled lethargically, as if his facial muscles were heavy, leaden. Violet watched as he lifted his hand—the one with the IV tubes sticking into it—and his bleary eyes struggled to maintain focus on her face. His hand only made it halfway to her face before dropping back to the crisp white sheets again as if the effort had been too much for him. “I was hoping I’d see you again, Sophie.”

The slur of his words was almost charming, in a drunken sort of way, but Violet frowned over the last word he’d spoken, the name he’d called her. She leaned forward, afraid to touch him or even to jostle his bed as she carefully leaned her elbows against the firm hospital mattress. “Who’s Sophie, Rafe?”

Rafe startled then, his muscles tensing and the endearing smile melting from his lips, giving way to a perplexed scowl as his eyes swam into focus. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was still laced with fatigue. “What are you talking about?”

“You called me Sophie.”

Rafe shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, I didn’t,” he groaned. “You must have misheard.”

Had she? She was pretty sure she didn’t. But what difference did it make what he’d called her? She was relieved to see him awake. Alive, for that matter.

“I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry about what happened, Rafe.”

His expression softened, his brows drawing together. “It wasn’t your fault. Sara said it was the other driver—” He scowled again, but this time he seemed to be struggling to remember.

“It was,” Violet assured him. “She was making an illegal turn, and . . .” She hesitated. “She didn’t see you.”

Rafe nodded, and Violet wondered how much of the accident he recalled, if anything. She hoped he’d conveniently stricken it from his memory.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said at last, a pained frown making its way over her face.

“Pshh.” He tried to wave his hand to dismiss her concerns, but it fell again before he could make any real statement. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’ve never been better.”

Violet studied him—scrutinized every inch she could see. Scrapes covered his hands, his cheek, and his chin—at least where she could see them around the bandages. Even his elbows had been wrapped up, from where the asphalt had ripped through his leather jacket, she assumed. Bruises were forming too, even ones that she could see through the transparent IV tape across his knuckles. She didn’t think she wanted to know what might be hidden beneath the covers. “Yeah, you look great,” she quipped. “Seriously, how bad is it?”

“I got some stitches,” he said, pointing at the gauze on his forehead. “And some bruised ribs, but it must not be too bad; they’re just waiting for the doc to sign off and then I get to go. Besides—” He grinned, tapping the place where the IV tube disappeared beneath his skin. “I gotta say, if you’re gonna get hurt, this is the place to be. The drugs here aren’t half-bad.” His head sagged heavily against the pillow.