Dead Silence

“These,” Sara explained on a gust of crisp air that only Violet could see, “are the first photographs of the crime scene I texted you all about this afternoon.”

As soon as Violet saw it, she understood why they’d all been called down here. There were two victims in this picture, a man and the woman, lying side by side, and both of them had their throats cut in the same way the family at the lake had.

“And this”—Sara held up a second photo—“is why we were called.”

Goose bumps peppered Violet’s skin, as déjà vu tickled her senses. It was an image of the same strange cross as the one from the other house. It had been drawn on the wall in blood or red paint.

“It’s called a brimstone cross,” Sara went on. “It was adopted as a satanic symbol by Anton LaVey in the sixties. But it’s also called the Leviathan cross, and is the alchemic symbol for sulfur. We’re working on possible connections in other cases, places where it might have shown up before. But for now, at least we know what it’s called.

“There was this, too.” She held up another picture. The words, DO YOU WANT TO SUFFER? had been written on a wall, also in the same dripping red substance that Violet was certain must be blood.

She glanced sideways at the others, to see if anyone winced or looked away. But everyone stared forward, watching as Sara flipped through the photographs. It was easier to look at pictures, Violet realized, remembering the way she’d felt when she’d stood in the middle of the crime scene. The way she’d puked into the planter on the front porch from the sight—and smell—of all that carnage.

Beside her, Krystal twirled her chair from side to side. “Who were they?” she asked Sara. “The people in the pictures?”

“Young couple from University Place in Tacoma.” Sara’s blue eyes found Violet then. “But they found another body at the couple’s home. A girl named Veronica Bowman.”

Violet stiffened, every muscle in her body going uncomfortably rigid. She recognized that name, just as Sara must have known she would.

Sara frowned and nodded slightly, the hint of an acknowledgment, and Violet watched as the lights above them reflected off the frost that coated Sara’s features . . . her lashes, her lips, her cheeks. Sara kept talking. “The girl was the sixteen-year-old daughter of the family Violet found,” she explained to the others.

Sara slid another photo down the polished wood table, past Krystal and toward Violet. “This was her.”

Violet felt as if Sara had just thrust her ice-cold hands around the base of her spine and squeezed. Icy pinpricks of horror seized her.

The girl didn’t look anything like she had in the pictures Violet had seen hanging on the refrigerator in her house. Even if she had been alive, Violet doubted anyone would have recognized her if they’d seen her. She was older than she had been in the pictures, but she was also emaciated and her hair was dyed. She was haggard and worn, and bore the grim expression of death.

Yet her body didn’t have the same gaping neck wound as the couple—or that her parents and younger brother had. Instead, in her left arm, dangling from the crook of her elbow, was a hypodermic needle, its plunger pushed all the way in.

“Drugs?” Violet asked, her throat entirely too dry, and she marveled that she’d managed to speak at all.

“We won’t know for sure until the tox screen comes back, but it looks that way.”

The chill slithered all the way down to her bones and she fought the urge to physically shiver as she turned to Sam. She wondered if that’s what he’d been planning to tell her, that he’d somehow known—from touching the school photograph she’d given him—that the girl was dead. That she’d been murdered too.

Judging from the expression on his face though, Sam was just as stunned by Sara’s announcement as she was. More so, maybe. He shook his head, and Violet glanced away quickly, not wanting anyone else to see their brief exchange.

But she caught Rafe watching her, and saw that she was too late. He didn’t bother trying to hide the interest that flickered just behind his usual veiled countenance. She reminded herself to breathe as she forced herself not to even blink in response. Instead she smiled, hoping it made her look innocent rather than tense—wound painfully tight—like she felt. If only her lips weren’t sticking to her teeth. If only Rafe would stop looking at her like he knew she was hiding something.

Violet pushed the picture away, not wanting to see it anymore. She got up and left the table, unsure her stomach could handle any more.

She retreated to the restroom, the one place where Rafe wouldn’t dare come after her, and she studied her image in the mirror as she washed her hands. When the door opened behind her, she watched Krystal from the reflection, marveling that the harsh overhead lights didn’t wash her out the way they had Violet. Krystal still looked vibrant and flamboyant, her hair sticking up from the coil at the back of her head in magenta and black spikes, making her look like some sort of goth peacock. Violet didn’t want to look at herself again. She’d already seen how she looked . . . sickly and pale. Too much like the corpses she’d seen during her lifetime.

“Hey,” Krystal said, approaching hesitantly, making an effort to sound light. “That sorta sucked, didn’t it? Are you okay?”

Violet shrugged, rubbing her hands a little too vigorously. “Yeah, it sorta did,” she agreed. And then, because it was Krystal, and because Krystal would open up to her if the roles were reversed, she said, “I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I think maybe because I was sure we’d find the girl, and it would suck for her because she’d lost her family, but at least she’d be safe.” She shrugged, wishing she had a better explanation. “Do you think . . . could you try to talk to her? To see if she can tell us who did this to her?”