Krystal snickered, and then straightened up, trying to look repentant for laughing at Violet’s suggestion. “Sorry. I know you’re serious. But, really, Vi, you know it doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried to tell you I have no control over who comes to me. They just”—she raised her hands, which were closed, to her reflection and then opened them both at once, spreading her fingers wide and making it look like her ability to talk to ghosts was a magic trick—“appear. I wish it were that simple. I’d ask her in a heartbeat, you know I would.”
“I guess I just wanted her to have a happy ending.” Violet’s voice was filled with remorse.
Krystal turned around and leaned against the counter, facing Violet. “I know you did. We all did,” she said, commiserating as she chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, getting neon lipstick all over her teeth. “Sometimes I think it’d be better if we didn’t have to see the things we see, or know the things we know. Then again, if we didn’t . . .” Her dark eyes were wide and honest and open. “If I couldn’t do the things I do, we might not have known where to find you when you were missing. You had a happy ending.”
Violet’s heart stuttered. Krystal was right. There were other reasons she was here, putting her abilities to use. Reasons that had nothing at all to do with Dr. Lee.
Still, it didn’t seem fair that she was okay while that other girl—Veronica—had ended up dead.
But life isn’t always fair, her mom used to say.
And it certainly isn’t always easy, Violet thought as she tried to wipe the images of the crime scene from her mind.
She ripped a piece of coarse brown paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands.
Maybe Sam had discovered something that might help even the odds, that might make things a little fairer. Maybe he could help Violet figure out how to give the girl’s death some meaning.
Suddenly, she had to find out what he knew.
It was getting cooler in the evenings now, and the late-summer-almost-autumn air clung to Violet’s skin—not entirely uncomfortable, but not exactly balmy once the sun started to set.
Krystal and Gemma had already gone home, and Violet was beginning to wonder if everyone else had too.
She hadn’t missed much after she’d excused herself from the meeting. Sara had managed to get some belongings from the family at the lake house—family photos, birth certificates, pieces of jewelry, a cell phone. But none of her teammates had picked up on anything right away. It was like that sometimes, just as Krystal had told her when they were in the restroom, they had no control over when and what came to them.
It was, Violet supposed, a little like magic after all.
She’d been waiting in front of the Center for nearly half an hour, and was starting to think that maybe Sam had ditched her. That maybe he’d snuck out that mysterious back entrance she’d heard Sara mention . . . the one that no one had ever actually bothered showing her.
She thought about walking around to the back of the building, about creeping down the alleyway to see if she could find it, but something stopped her.
Memories. Memories of the day she’d been attacked by James Nua in that very alley. Memories of his fatal shooting.
Violet’s phone rang and she checked it. It was Chelsea . . . again. The third time she’d called since Violet had been out here. She couldn’t help thinking she’d made a mistake confiding in her friend because now, suddenly, Chelsea was sort of . . . preoccupied with Violet and her body-finding ability.
It was weird, like Violet was a bug, and Chelsea was examining her through a magnifying glass. But she was worried that Chelsea might inadvertently burn her if she held that lens on her for too long.
She hit Ignore and shoved her phone in her purse, then whirled on her heel, deciding to wait in her car instead. As she turned back, she gasped when she ran into someone who was standing right behind her.
“Holy . . . geez, Sam, you scared me half to death!” Violet wheezed, clutching her chest and trying to catch her breath. “I thought maybe you’d ducked out the back.”
“Sorry, Violet.” But he didn’t look overly sorry. Instead, he was grinning in that too-eager way that made Violet forget he’d nearly given her a heart attack. “I didn’t realize you even knew about the back entrance.”
“I don’t. Not really.” She frowned, wondering when she’d stop being the new girl and start learning all the “cool secrets,” as Sam called them. “So what do you have for me? Did you figure something out?” she asked, impatient now that he was standing here. Despite the sudden rush of adrenaline, she rubbed her hands over her arms.
Sam reached into his back pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. He held it out to her.
She glanced at it, and then back to him. “Okaaay . . . you have a flyer,” she drawled. She peeked again. “For what? A band?”
Sam nodded. “Yep.” He reached out and tapped the paper. “See that? They’re playing tomorrow night.” Violet looked at the date. “I want you to meet me there,” he told her.
Violet scanned the rest of the flyer. The band was called Safe Word, and from all the skulls and eyeballs, and the font that looked like it had been carved with the blade of a knife, she guessed they played some sort of heavy metal or grunge, or maybe some form of alternative. The overall feel of the flyer was dark and lurid and menacing. “Why?”
Sam shifted on his feet. “I don’t know, exactly. I just know that when I touched that picture you gave me . . . of the girl . . .” He pulled out the picture, too, and passed it back to Violet. “I see this band. I think they might have meant something to her. I think if we go there, we might . . .” He reached up and tugged at his collar. “I don’t know, maybe figure something out.”