The Last Echo (24 page)

Her tenuous hold slipped, and then she was plunging too, her arms flailing wildly, a scream frozen in the base of her throat.

The only sound she actually heard was the sickening thud he made when he collided with the hollow wooden floor beneath them. And something else, something she had no time to process before she too landed . . . falling on her stomach, her arms and legs completely ineffective in breaking her fall as dust rose up, choking her and making it impossible to breathe at all.

SUNLIGHT.

Violet blinked, wondering when was the last time she’d actually felt the silvered strands of daylight on her skin. It seemed like forever ago. Another lifetime.

She blinked again and tried to take a breath. She choked on a mouthful of something too thick to be considered air, and she rolled her face out of the dirt.

From nearby, she heard something. An endless, unabating sound.

She coughed again as she struggled to sit up, trying to figure out where she was.

And then her thoughts cleared.

Panic whipped through her and she gracelessly lurched to her feet, unsteady and light-headed.

The sound was still there as if carried on the rays of light that broke through the cracks in the ceiling and walls. Violet searched, knowing what—
who
—she was searching for, even before she found him.

Caine.

And he was there, just inches from her. She jumped back from his broken body, afraid that if she so much as breathed her toes might accidentally brush against him.

She stared down at his wide, unseeing eyes, remembering the sounds from his fall. The solid thud and the other, more grotesque sound . . .

She looked at him now, realizing what it had been. He’d landed on the pitchfork when he’d fallen.

Her hand flew to cover her mouth. Then she heard it.

The sound.

It was a metallic tinkling, like a music box. The kind little girls wind up, the kind with a twirling ballerina inside.

Violet turned in a circle, trying to figure out where the sound might be coming from, trying to pinpoint its location. It was soft and slow, melodic and eerie.

She stepped closer to Caine’s body, just needing one last look to convince herself he was actually dead. He’d created his last echo, hurt his last girl. She leaned close, her heart pounding as she gazed into his vacant eyes.

The music grew louder, humming just beneath the surface of her skin, tingling electrically.

And she knew. The echo was his.

She knew then that the music-box sound, the echo that clung to Caine’s lifeless form, also clung to her.

She had an imprint of her own now.

Violet had been walking for so long that her legs felt like rubber. In reality, it could have been mere minutes. She knew she was weak, that her stamina was next to nothing.

In the light of day, she’d found a small dirt road that led from the old barn. Like everything else, it had been overrun with weeds and fresh spring grass and clover, but she could still see the tracks that had once been made by tires. And she could still tell which way she had to go.

As she walked, she tried not to listen to the plinking sound of music that followed her, hovering around her.
On her.
But it was impossible, and soon she’d memorized the tune, and despite herself, found herself humming along to it.

She knew that if anyone had been listening, they’d think she’d lost her mind.

Maybe she had. She’d killed a man, after all. How many people could say that? How many normal people had committed murder, even in self-defense?

She looked at her own hands and felt dirty in a way that had nothing to do with the muck and filth that coated them. This was something that went deeper. Something much, much darker.

After what felt like hours, after humming endless loops of the nameless song that only she could hear, exhaustion finally got the best of Violet. She didn’t think she could take another step, and eventually she stopped trying, deciding it was best if she just sat for a while in the middle of nowhere and waited.

Violet could hear the cars coming down the tracked road even above the incessant music that shadowed her. She knew they were driving too fast and she jumped up, getting out of their way as she lifted her hand against the sun, shielding her eyes. When the cars were close enough, Violet fell to her knees, sobbing with relief, as everything slipped into slow motion.

She saw her uncle Stephen first, swinging open the passenger-side door of the first car before it had even come to a complete stop. He was running toward her, yelling something to her and shouting orders behind him. Violet heard nothing but the ceaseless tinkling of the imprint she now carried.

The men in the car with him were out now too, weapons drawn as they searched the woods around them . . . alert and ready.

Violet wanted to tell them it was okay, that Caine was dead, but all she could manage were tears of relief. She was safe.

She smiled up at her uncle as he reached her, scooping her up from the ground.

“Violet! Violet! Violet!” Even her name seemed to be set to the music in her head.

She let him fold her in his arms. Let him squeeze her until she felt alive again. Until she could breathe at last.

“Three days,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you know the odds? Do you know how afraid we were?” And then, when he finally released her and his eyes met hers, “Is he nearby? Do you know where to find him?”

She nodded. She knew where he was, but she was still too afraid to say the words.

He wrapped her in his arms, leading her to the car. “Your parents are waiting at the local sheriff’s office. Just tell me where he is and I’ll meet you there.”

Violet stopped, and her uncle did too. The music, however, would never stop. “He’s dead,” she stated quietly. Flatly. “I killed him.”

VIOLET’S PARENTS SHOVED THROUGH THE DOOR
of the small sheriff’s office as the patrol car parked in front. Violet doubted that the deputy driving could have stopped her mom from opening the car door if he’d tried . . . not even the threat of gunpoint would’ve slowed her down. Once she was surrounded by them, in their arms, Violet found herself crying again, sobbing as first her mom, and then her dad, engulfed her.

Violet clung to them, trying to ignore the wordless tune that cleaved to her as she concentrated on the fact that she’d survived.

“We’re so sorry, Vi. We never would’ve left you alone if we’d known . . .” Her mother ran a hand through Violet’s hair, then rested her palm against her daughter’s cheek.

“Uncle Stephen called before you got here. He told us what happened. I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” her dad explained sadly. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”

Violet closed her eyes. She didn’t want to feel bad about what she’d done. She
didn’t
feel bad, she told herself. “It’s okay,” she said, and meant it. “I had to.”

Her mom nodded, lifting her other hand to cradle Violet’s face. “It doesn’t mean you’re okay, baby.”

Violet squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the tinkling noise would just vanish. Disappear. “I know, Mom. Believe me,” she snapped. And then, because it wasn’t their fault, “It’ll just take some time for me to . . . get used to it.”

Her father’s gaze was thoughtful. “Is it . . . ? Do you . . . ?”

Violet nodded. She knew what he was asking.

“Is it terrible?” her mom asked. “What is it?”

Violet opened her mouth to complain, to tell her parents about the continuous noise she’d have to live with forever. And then she realized where she was. That she was standing outside . . . with her parents . . . alive.

“It’s fine,” she said at last. “It’s like one of those windup jewelry boxes with the little ballerina inside. It’s like listening to a music box.”

Her mother hugged her again, crushing her in that way of hers that Violet had worried she’d never feel again. Violet glanced up in time to see tears glistening in her dad’s eyes.

They didn’t get home until early the next morning. Violet had been taken to a clinic in the isolated lakeside community, so she could be given fluids and checked out. That’s where Caine had been holding her, in a lake house his family had used as vacation property years earlier. The place hadn’t been used in over a decade, not since Caine’s father had died when Caine was just a boy.

According to the local sheriff, Caine’s father had fallen in a ravine one day while he and Caine had been hiking, and he’d sent his young son in search of help. Caine had wandered in the woods for two days—and two long nights—all by himself before he finally found someone. By the time the rescuers found the ravine Caine described, his father was already dead . . . and, according to the sheriff, his mother blamed the little boy for not trying hard enough. For not saving her husband.

Caine had only been eight years old.

Violet agreed with the sheriff that his story was sad, tragic even, but it didn’t change who he’d become. He was a murderer, plain and simple. In the end, he hadn’t been the kind of person to feel sorry for, at least as far as Violet was concerned. Given the chance, he would have killed her without so much as a second thought.

At the clinic, Violet had begged for nail polish remover, so she could strip the lacquer reminder from her nails.

But it wasn’t until they were pulling into their driveway the next morning that Violet felt the first pangs of panic about returning to her real life. She wasn’t sure she could go back in there—into her house. Not after everything that had happened. She was too worried about the memories it would hold.

She already carried an eternal reminder of Caine . . . of his death.

Violet turned up the volume on her iPod, trying to drown out the persistent music box she heard. It had been hard to sleep last night. Even harder not to dream about him.

But now . . . being here.

Her mom turned and waved her hand in front of Violet’s face, vying with the music for her attention. Violet pulled one of the earbuds free. “Your friends are here,” her mom announced, smiling in the same way she’d been smiling ever since she’d heard the doctor at the clinic say that Violet was okay. That she just needed some rest and she’d be fine.

Violet had her own opinions about that diagnosis.

When she saw Krystal’s car, Roxy, parked alongside Jay’s car in the driveway, the mask—the practiced look of serenity she’d carefully donned during the ride home—slipped.

“I know how much they mean to you,” her mom ex-plained, her expression painfully hopeful.

Jay stood waiting for Violet outside, and when the car stopped and she got out he watched her silently for a moment, their eyes locked. And then he was running toward her, catching her in his arms and wrapping them around her. Neither of them said anything for a long, long time; they just stayed like that, holding and touching each other, breathing each other in. Jay squeezed her against him, and every time they’d start to relax he’d squeeze her again, his grip tightening even when Violet didn’t think it could possibly tighten any more.

“Don’t ever do that again, Violet Ambrose. I swear to God, you can never do that again,” he said when he finally loosened his grip, keeping his fingers interlaced with hers.

Violet didn’t tell him she hadn’t done anything. She didn’t explain that none of this was her fault, or talk about what had happened during the past several days. Instead, she just lifted her eyes to his. “I won’t. I promise.”

Behind him, Violet saw the front door to her house open, and she stiffened when Rafe stepped out.

Jay was watching her. “What’s wrong, Vi? I thought you’d be happy to see them. It’s okay. If Rafe’s important to you, then I guess he’s important to me too.”

Confusion battled inside her, but Violet just stared over Jay’s shoulder, her eyes never leaving Rafe.

She didn’t know how she felt about her team right now.

It wasn’t their fault, she knew. She’d loved getting to know Sara and Krystal and Sam. She was grateful for everything Dr. Lee had done to help her. . . . Even Gemma, as bitchy as she was, deserved a break, Violet supposed. She’d had a rough life, with no one to support and believe in her. Violet might not particularly like her, but she didn’t exactly hate her either.

And then there was Rafe . . .

Rafe, who was standing here now. She’d probably never be able to stay away from Rafe entirely.

But she’d given it a lot of thought over the past few days, and she’d decided that she’d be safer—happier—if she steered clear of their unusual organization.

Even if it meant she couldn’t use her ability to help anyone. For now, at least, she needed to concentrate on taking care of herself.

“Talk to him,” Jay finally said. “He came here to see you.”

Violet shrugged, the only answer she seemed able to give, and then nodded. She moved away from Jay, reluctantly untangling her fingers from his, as Rafe came down the steps to meet her.

Violet thought he might hug her, an awkward embrace she’d endure, because that’s what people seemed to do in a situation like this. Her uncle and her parents had. Even the sheriff, who she’d never met before, had wrapped his arms around her like she was some long-lost relation. She understood, she supposed. It was relief. She’d felt it too.

But Rafe, of course, had to be different.

“Dammit, V, I tried to call you. I tried to warn you,” he admonished, frowning as if it were all her fault. He started to close the gap, his hand moving uncertainly toward hers.

Violet shoved her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, the one her parents had bought her from a bait shop in the lakeside town . . . the hoodie she’d be burning later so she wouldn’t be reminded of her ordeal with Caine. She didn’t want Rafe to touch her; she couldn’t risk letting his skin brush against hers.

He followed her lead and tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His casual stance belied the turmoil Violet could feel coming off him like heat. “I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She shrugged.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He watched her intently, his blue eyes somber, sorrowful. “Krystal’s inside. She’s dying to tell you how she knew where you were. Plus, she made you cupcakes. I think she’s been channeling the spirit of Betty Crocker lately. She’s been baking cookies and pies. The kitchen at the Center’s been like a bakery.”

Violet smiled, taking her hands out of her pockets and toying with the hem of her jacket. “My mom told me it was one of you. That Sara called and told them where they would find me.”

Rafe shifted nervously, looking down at his feet. “Sara would’ve come too, but, you know . . . your parents. I don’t think they like her right now.”

Violet nodded. She understood. “So it was Krystal?” She didn’t know why, but for some reason she was disappointed it hadn’t been Rafe. She thought they shared some sort of connection and that he would’ve been the one to find her. “How? Or should I ask who?”

“I’ll let her tell you. But I know she felt bad it didn’t happen sooner.” And then, as if he’d understood what she’d been thinking, he lifted his eyes to hers. “I’m sorry too, V. It should’ve been me. I should’ve saved you.” This time when he tried to touch her, Violet didn’t stop him. His hand came up beneath hers, moving so their skin grazed, their palms barely touching. The jolt was instant, and exhilarating, reminding Violet that she was still alive. That Caine hadn’t crushed her spirit.

“Rafe, I can’t—” She pulled her hand from his at the same time she glanced over her shoulder to where Jay was standing, and saw that his attention was focused solely on Rafe.

“I know,” Rafe said, more to himself than to Violet.

She turned back to him, her eyes imploring, beseeching.

“Go,” Rafe insisted, letting her off the hook. “It looks like it’s killing him not to come over here. Besides, I better get back inside before Krystal starts baking your dad a cake or something.”

Violet laughed, a first in days. “He’d probably like that.” She smiled as she watched Rafe bound up the steps again, but she stopped him before he reached the top. “Rafe,” she whispered. “Thanks for being here.”

And then Jay was at her side, and she forgot all about Rafe as she slipped back into his arms, so easily, so comfortably, she could’ve been falling into her own bed. Her face lifted to his and he kissed her. First on the head, like her mother had done, and then on the cheek, the way her dad had. But then his lips found her mouth, and the kiss became something else entirely.

Something that belonged only to them.