Dead Silence (17 page)

By the end of the day, Violet was exhausted. What she wanted was to go home and flop on her bed. To read through more of her grandmother’s journals. To sleep.

But it was Monday and she had an appointment, one she wasn’t allowed to miss. After Jay had dropped her off at her house so she could get her car, she made the long drive into the city, trying to give herself every reason to cancel her weekly meeting with Dr. Lee, but knowing, no matter how good the excuses she came up with, it was against the rules he’d laid out for her. And the last thing she wanted to do was to put her family in harm’s way.

Instead she concentrated on the fact that he might actually be able to help her this time. As much as she hated to admit it, he had a way of making her feel better when an echo—or in this case,
echoes
—weighed on her.

She was doing okay. Better than okay, really. By comparison to how it used to be after she’d found a body, the dull headache and the sluggishness she felt now were a cakewalk. She could manage through this like a champ.

Still, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be better, which was where Dr. Lee came in. He had ways . . .

Ways of stilling her mind. Ways of easing the tension. Ways of chasing away her demons.

And for that, she almost hated him more. For making her lean on him, even when he was twisting her arm and forcing her to do things.

She barely said two words during the entire first half of the session. It wasn’t until Dr. Lee asked her about the events of the weekend that she—reluctantly—allowed him to walk her through a breathing exercise.

Of course, it worked. And of course, inwardly she cursed herself for letting him be so useful. But she did feel better, despite herself.

As she slipped out into the waiting room, a familiar voice startled her. “Violet!
Hey!
How are you?
”

She glanced back, checking to see if Dr. Lee was watching, but the door to his office was closed, giving them a few minutes of privacy. Sam didn’t seem to notice her guardedness as he stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug that was too tight.

Violet laughed, momentarily forgetting her silent vow to be sullen and brooding whenever she was in Dr. Lee’s presence. “Sam . . .” She could feel his ribs poking out beneath her hands as she shoved out of his grip. “What are you doing here?”

Sam’s skinny arms fell away, but his smile stayed firm and affixed on his face. She still had a hard time with the notion that Sam was some sort of super genius—or at least
self-professed
super genius. She knew it must be true, though. He wasn’t even sixteen and already he was a sophomore at the university. Hard to imagine since he barely had his learner’s permit and still had to take the bus and get rides from his parents everywhere he went.

He tapped the side of his head. “You know, psych checkup. Makin’ sure all the cogs are still in working order.”

Violet scrutinized Sam, trying to decide if he was being forced here the same way she was. But he stared back at her with his usual unreserved, too-eager expression, the one that looked like he had nothing in the world to hide.

Sometimes Violet forgot there’d actually been a time when she
wanted
to be here, when her visits to Dr. Lee were less than obligatory. “Yeah. Me too,” she said, knowing she couldn’t tell anyone else about the doctor’s coercive tactics.

“Man, I heard about the righteous crime scene you stumbled on. I’m so jealous. I heard it was disgusting.”

“Um, yeah,” Violet agreed. “It was pretty gross. And you’re pretty twisted if you’re jealous.”

He lifted his scrawny shoulders. “Duh,” he said, like that much was obvious. “Never said I wasn’t. So? Any suspects yet?”

Violet shook her head, thinking about Grady being cleared, and her uncle’s promise to let her know if he learned anything new. “Not yet.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder, making sure they were still alone before he leaned closer. “Man, I wish I could’a been there. That’s my favorite part . . . being at the scene itself. Touching things that belonged to the . . .” He shifted nervously on his feet, as if what he was saying was disrespectful, and then he shrugged. “Victims and whatnot. I love that flash . . .” His eyes lit up then, filled with wonder. “When I know I’ve got something. When I know I can help. Hopefully Sara can snag us some of their things. I hear the girl’s still missing. Hopefully it’s not too late for her.”

Violet felt a sudden jolt at Sam’s words, and wondered how she’d nearly forgotten that Rafe wasn’t the only one who could glean information by touching objects. Sam had the gift of psychometry too.

“Sam, Sam, Sam . . .” She flashed him a knowing grin as she reached for her backpack. She fumbled around inside it for a second, her fingers closing around the leather-bound journal that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She felt giddy, as she opened the front flap of the journal and reached for the photograph she’d hidden there, the one of the missing girl—the school picture Violet had lifted from the crime scene. Violet wasn’t sure it would work, but they could try at least. Maybe someone had handled it enough, maybe it had meant enough to one of them, that something could be read from it.

“Here,” Violet said, handing it over to him. “Keep it safe. And, please, don’t tell anyone I gave it to you. I don’t want anyone to know I took it.”

Sam watched her, his eyes wide as if she were presenting him with a work of art, rather than something she’d stolen off someone’s refrigerator.

“You can count on me,” he breathed, pressing it against his chest and closing his eyes.

Dr. Lee opened the door to his office then, pausing as he looked at each of them slowly, his face masked of all expressions. “Sam? Are you ready?”

Sam nodded, as he slid the picture discreetly into his back pocket. “Coming.”

Dr. Lee stood there a second longer, and then vanished inside to wait for Sam.

Sam winked at Violet, keeping his voice quiet. “I’ll let you know if I sense anything,” he said. Then he, too, disappeared into the doctor’s office.

Violet suddenly felt better. She may have a lead at last.

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

“I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T COMING BACK THIS time.” There was a mocking quality to his father’s words that he’d grown accustomed to over the years. He’d expected it from the old man.

“I’m not. I just need to grab a few things, then I’m outta here.” He’d hoped to get in and out without running into his dad, especially since the old man’s piece of shit car wasn’t parked out front. But even he’d known that had been hoping for too much. His dad rarely left except to make a run for more cigarettes or booze. Which is probably where his car was now, stranded somewhere on the side of the road . . . out of gas.

His dad barely looked up from the TV. “Don’t be like that. Stop being such a pansy and get your ass home. I got shit needs to be done around here.” The SOB had been drinking, and his words were sloppy. To an unaccustomed ear, it sounded like he’d said, “I go’ shi’ nee’s be done ’roun ’ere.”

Evan’s stomach clenched, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, I know. Yer too good for us, isn’t that right, boy? Yer gonna run off and be a rock star.”

“I just need to get some things,” he repeated as calmly as he could manage, leaving the room while the miserable bastard still ranted behind him. He needed to pack his shit and get out of there before the old man’s words morphed into full-on rage.

He passed a darkened bedroom, the door slightly ajar, just like it always was, and he hesitated. Something inside of him stirred, something small and childlike. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Ma,” he breathed almost soundlessly into the still room.

There was no response but he knew she was in there; he could smell the fetid stench of her waste and her unwashed body. Smells that no child should ever have to smell. And along with her scent, he could hear the slight rustling of her sheets.

“It’s just me,” he said, louder this time. “I . . . I just stopped by. . . .” He didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t staying. That he was leaving her alone—once and for all—with her husband.

But then there was another smell, the caustic stench that made the hairs on his arms stand on end, disclosing his father’s presence even before he spoke. He knew it had been a mistake, coming here. He knew he should’ve waited, till he was sure his old man wasn’t home.

“You think she needs you, boy? You think she gives a flyin’ fuck”—he could feel spittle shower the back of his neck—“that you’re here? She doesn’t even know where she is.
She doesn’t even know who you are,”
his father spat. “She’s a junkie. No better’n that girl you got yerself hooked up with.”

Evan turned as fury uncoiled, making his hands ball at his sides even though he told himself not to do it. Even though he begged himself to stop.

His father saw too. “What’re’ya gonna do, boy? You think you can take yer ol’ man?” His mouth split into a hideous grin, baring teeth that were decayed and gums that festered, swollen and red. “Try it.”

He thought of Kisha and Bailey and Boxer and Colton—Butterfly, too—all waiting for him. All counting on him. He couldn’t do this. He knew he was outmatched. His father outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and drunk or not, he’d once gone toe to toe with some of the best amateur fighters in the circuit. He could throw a punch as naturally as he could polish off a fifth of bourbon.

He loosened his fists and tried to duck around the bastard. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered.

But it was too late. His father was already raring for a fight, he’d already pushed the old bastard too far.

He felt his dad tackle him from behind and instinctively his arms shot up, covering the back of his head as his face slammed against the ground. That was the first line of attack—always was—his head. His dad landed a couple of solid blows, making his arms ache where they tried to shield him, but he already knew the rhythm of the punches—right, left, right. He dragged himself to the left, just as a hard right was coming at him, and he heard his father’s fist slam the hardwood just beside his ear.

There was a pause, and then his father’s shrieks—outrage mixed with pain—rumbled off the wall of the house. “Son of a—You mother
fu—”

But Evan was already rolling away, taking advantage of the fact that he’d thrown the old man off kilter by fighting back. He kicked behind him, just once, and managed to catch his father in the gut. He heard the bastard land on the ground with a satisfying
whomp!

He wouldn’t have long, he knew, and he scrambled to get to his feet, knowing his only chance was to get the hell out of there. He could get his shit later, when his dad ran out of booze again and had to make another liquor run.

He was almost to the door when he felt his feet jerked out from beneath him and he landed on his knees. His head reeled as he struggled to figure out what had just happened. He rolled onto his back, still trying to figure out why he’d fallen, only to see the old man waving something at him. His dad looked like a demented matador in a bullfight. Except that instead of a red cape, he was brandishing a floor mat. One Evan had walked on thousands of times before.

His father had literally pulled the rug out from underneath him.

“Nice try, fuckwad.” He threw the rug down and closed the distance in two strides.

The first fist his dad landed was a hard left, and it hit him so hard his teeth clattered together. He might have bitten his tongue, or maybe it was his cheek, but he definitely tasted blood. The second was a right hook, coming up just beneath his jaw. He saw stars or fireworks or whatever you called it when white hot flashes exploded behind your eyelids making it impossible to see.

Glancing around, Evan searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. Something that might stop, or even just delay, his father long enough so he could escape.

There was nothing. Just an array of bottles and an overflowing ashtray and enough
Playboy
s to make the old man look like some kind of perv.

He reached for the nearest bottle, barely noticing that the lid wasn’t screwed on, and he felt the cheap whiskey dribble down his arm as he waved it in front of the old man. “Get away from me, you prick. Stay back.”

His dad’s vision cleared slightly as he fumbled for the bottle. “Hey, knock it off, you idiot. That’s perfectly good scotch. Put it down or I’ll beat your ass.”

Evan laughed as he staggered to his feet, still letting the contents of the bottle spill all over the floor. “Really, you stupid bastard? You’ll beat my ass?” He wondered what the miserable drunk thought he’d already done to him . . . this time, and a thousand times before. He threw the bottle down, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it shattered on the floor, sending shards of glass spraying everywhere.