Dead Silence

“But why fake her death?” Violet asked, still wanting to know.

She expected him to tell her to mind her own business, that she’d overstepped. On the contrary, he answered as easily as if she’d always been permitted to know such things. As if he’d never threatened her in the first place. Or maybe he was just tired of keeping the lies to himself. “As it turns out, Muriel had learned too much about our organization—about what those in charge were up to: blackmailing industry leaders, corrupting corporations. She was persuaded to relocate, and to never contact anyone in the Circle again.” Violet hated the way he emphasized the word persuaded, and she couldn’t help thinking of old-time thugs with trench coats and broken noses.

He continued, unaware of the way she shuddered inwardly. “She was kept away for years; even her name was changed. But when we discovered that her grandson was special too, we contacted her. When Sam’s parents agreed to our terms . . .” His voice drifted off, and again, Violet got that sick feeling of Sam being haggled over, like a commodity. She waited a long time, while she considered all the things he’d just told her. “Violet—” he started to say, then stopped himself. “I’m not the one you have to worry about,” he said at last, his voice no longer filled with menace. “I’m not in charge; I only do what I’m told. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m trying to help you.” He frowned. “Don’t you get it, your team has done some great things? Look at what you’ve been able to accomplish.”

He sighed, his shoulders falling. “I’m warning you, Violet, the fewer people who know, the better. I’m saying this for your own good.”

“Can I ask why you stayed . . . when everyone else split up? Why did you stay on?”

A wan smile tugged at his mouth. “My father. He was the one who started this whole thing. My ability—whatever you call it, this thing I can do—my father had it too. He had grand ideas about finding a way to use it. About finding others and gathering them together to form some secret society, so we could use our abilities to . . .” His smile spread into a slow and twisted grin. “To take over the world, you could say.”

“And now?” Violet asked, feeling uneasy, like she already knew too much.

Dr. Lee sighed. “Now he’s dead. Now things have changed and it’s a different organization. I’d like to think that those changes are all for the better.”

She was cautious with her next question, not sure she was ready to hear the truth. “Would they have hurt my family or relocated me, the way they did Muriel? If I hadn’t stayed on the team like I was warned?”

Dr. Lee was quiet, that same kind of long pause that made her think she might not like what she heard. “I can’t answer that, Violet. I don’t know everything.”

She’d read enough of her grandmother’s journals to know that if he’d wanted her to feel calm, she would have. But he didn’t. She knew because of the way her pulse raced, and how her stomach twisted in agonizing knots, and the chill that shivered over her skin.

“Go home, Violet,” he said at last, surprising her by handing the photograph back to her. “Just”—he shook his head, turning to unlock his car—“go home.”

After her meeting with Dr. Lee, Violet continued to turn the information over in her mind until she realized it didn’t really matter. He’d told her all he was going to . . . revealing half-truths and doling out vague advice.

Violet wished her grandmother could have lived long enough to know the truth: that Muriel hadn’t died after all.

In her bedroom, she set her purse down, and noticed the flyer Sam had given her poking out from beneath it, right where she’d left it on her dresser. She pulled it out and examined it, momentarily forgetting all about Dr. Lee and the Circle of Seven.

The night of the concert, Violet had lain awake for several hours, thinking she must have missed something crucial, some bit of information that would link the band to the girl. She felt as if she had all the right information—all the pieces—she just couldn’t make them fit.

The brimstone cross.

The band . . . Safe Word.

Veronica Bowman.

Even the missing echo seemed to taunt her, despite knowing the reason for its absence.

But there wasn’t much she could do, at least not from the solitude of her bedroom, about the girl or her brother, so she decided to go online, to get as much information as she could about the cross and the band.

When she typed brimstone cross into Google, the first entries that popped up referred to its symbolism in satanism, just as Sara had mentioned. There were plenty of images to scroll through—drawings, jewelry, tattoos. But nothing more than what she already knew.

When she’d finished reading through the articles she could find, she typed in the name of the band, Safe Word. This search was harder, and had to be revised several times, since safe word was a bondage term, and brought up hundreds of images, including guys in leather masks, handcuffs, and whips.

When she added the term Seattle band to the search, she found what she’d been looking for.

There were Facebook and MySpace pages, and YouTube videos. She clicked on the videos, and immediately realized she was watching the right guys. This was the same band she’d seen at the club the other night. The same group with the brimstone cross on their drums.

She watched each video closely, trying to search for anything that might tie them to Veronica or her death. She searched for the girl during the crowd shots, pausing and going back and rewatching them as she studied each face.