Desires of the Dead

“Give us a minute,” Sara responded, and a silent look passed between them, leaving Violet with the impression that they understood each other easily, with very few words.

He didn’t even glance at Violet before he closed the door again.

But Sara was studying her. “Does any of what I’ve said make sense to you?”

Violet nodded. She understood perfectly—both the stated and the unstated implications.

Sara was telling Violet she knew she was special. That she knew Violet had somehow found that boy in a way that no one else could have. Or at least, from what Sara had just insinuated, that only a very few others could have done.

But Violet was only willing to acknowledge the shallowest significance of Sara’s words. Violet felt like she was standing on a narrow precipice, tenuously balancing at the brink of admission. And she refused to make that leap.

“Good. Can you do me one quick favor? It’ll just take a minute.”

“Okay,” Violet agreed.

Sara surprised Violet by standing up to leave.

Violet followed as Sara held the door open. She had reservations about going into the hallway again, where the saturation of imprints seemed to be the strongest. Fortunately they didn’t have far to go, and they slipped through another doorway just a few steps away.

Rafe was already there, waiting. His blue eyes met Violet’s briefly, delving into her, making her uneasy all over again.

She wondered what it was that she saw in his expression. Concern? Or maybe it was curiosity. Maybe she was an oddity to be examined. Violet glanced away before she had the chance to interpret it, insulating herself from the discomfort his brief gaze caused her.

And then Rafe moved discreetly to the far corner of the room, making himself as unobtrusive as possible. He seemed comfortable there, watching soundlessly, and with everything else that was happening, Violet found herself forgetting his shadowy presence almost immediately.

This room was different from the one they’d just been in, although she recognized it immediately. Not from personal experience but from TV and movies. It was a viewing room. The kind of room with one-way glass that the police used for lineups.

The space that they stood in was small. Smaller than she would have expected. And it was dark. The room on the other side of the glass, which she could see clearly, was larger and well-lit.

Violet’s head started to pound again, this time in anticipation. She was afraid of what this meant, her being here in this room. She didn’t think she was ready for whatever Sara had in mind. Her chest tightened and her breathing became shallow.

“Wh-wha—” Violet stammered. She couldn’t seem to finish what she wanted to ask.

Sara touched her hand. “Try to relax, Violet,” she entreated in a voice that was much gentler now. “This will only take a second. We have a person of interest in the murder of the boy on the waterfront. Just look at him. Tell us if you notice . . . anything about him.”

Violet couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She shook her head, but she couldn’t put her refusal into words.

“Just stay.” Sara’s plea was whisper soft.

When Violet didn’t object—or rather, couldn’t object—Sara nodded wordlessly toward Rafe.

He left the room and, within seconds, five men were escorted into the brightly lit space on the other side of the glass.

Violet shuddered.

Sara glanced over to watch her, scrutinizing her.

“Take your time, Violet.” Quietly.

“I—can’t—” It was a broken murmur.

“Look at them,” she coaxed.

Violet was frozen, her eyes beating back and forth across the strangers’ faces. Several of the men carried imprints, some more than just one. She could see flames licking over one man’s skin, heat shimmering above him. The taste of copper pennies filled her mouth, as did something else, something bitter that she couldn’t identify. And even through the glass, she could hear several sounds weaving together: a bird’s wings beating frantically, the muffled engine of a large truck, a child crying.

She even wondered too if she didn’t smell oranges.

The stimuli were too much, and Violet couldn’t distinguish one face from the next. Eventually she couldn’t filter one imprint from another. They were all distorted, a tangled mess.

“Can you tell me anything?” Sara sounded far away now, as if she were at the end of a tunnel. Violet hoped she wasn’t about to pass out.

She shook her head. It felt like it might split from the pressure building behind her brittle skull. Her eyes darted nervously from one face to the next.

Sara gripped Violet’s shoulders. The touch was like a jolt to Violet, jarring her from the blur of imprints that assaulted her and the even blurrier faces before her. She allowed herself to be turned away from the glass.

Violet knew that Sara misunderstood what she was going through. “I know what happened to you last year,” Sara comforted her. “And I know you’re afraid. But you don’t need to be, Violet, I promise. You’re completely safe here. They can’t see you.”

Violet blinked in response. It was all she was capable of.

“Just tell me this . . .” Sara requested, defeat evident in her words. “Is he in there?”

Violet glanced back, not really looking. She was trying to find something through the intertwined collection of sensations. She tried to locate a sound, single and solitary, from among the others.

The melodic vibrations of a harp.