Desires of the Dead

She closed her eyes as she shook her head.

It wasn’t there.

Thank God, Violet thought to herself. It isn’t there.

Violet stayed in the bathroom for longer than she needed to.

The interior was cool, and within its insulated walls she felt safer. Calmer.

She was grateful that she’d made it there in time, before she’d actually thrown up. Sara had left her alone, and even though there were several stalls, she was never disturbed by anyone else.

Violet leaned over the sink and scooped cold water into her mouth, swishing it around and then spitting it into the porcelain bowl. She splashed more water on her face, pressing her hands against her flushed cheeks and staring at herself in the mirror.

What is wrong with me? she wondered. Why am I so relieved that he wasn’t there, in the lineup?

Her eyes looked haunted. She felt haunted.

She knew why: She wasn’t ready to face him. She didn’t want to know who he was. Or what he was.

She waited for as long as she could, past the point of its being weird that she was still in there, before forcing herself to come out again.

Rafe was waiting for her, looking relieved, and Violet had the feeling that he’d been standing there, guarding the door, the entire time.

“Feeling better?” he asked softly, shifting nervously.

Violet looked around the hallway, wondering why they were alone now.

“Sara had to go,” Rafe answered before Violet could ask. And then he handed Violet two manila file folders before walking her to the elevators. “She asked me to give you these and to think about what she said.”

“I can’t—” Violet insisted, trying to refuse them.

But Rafe held them out until she finally took them. “You don’t have to do it right away, Violet. Just look them over whenever you feel up to it.”

His dark eyes held hers, and Violet felt that same nagging sensation that had bothered her when she’d been alone with him at the theater . . . the feeling that there was some shared secret between them. A secret that neither of them was willing to acknowledge.

A man in a suit brushed past them in the hallway, and Violet watched him go. She knew him from somewhere, but she couldn’t quite place it. She ignored the fleeting sense of déjà vu, too fatigued by everything that had happened to give it more than a passing thought.

When they reached the elevator in the lobby, Violet was relieved as she watched Rafe disappear behind the closing doors.

She sighed, leaning heavily against the hand railing, her forehead resting on the steel wall. When she reached her floor, she hurried into the concrete structure of the parking garage, anxious to get to her car and away from everything about this place.

Ahead of her, a group of men was gathered, and Violet overheard brief snippets of their conversation without meaning to.

“What was she thinking . . . ?”

“. . . a waste of time . . .”

“. . . total bullshit.”

The words would have been unremarkable to Violet had they not been surrounded by something else: the unmistakable impressions that hovered around their words, around their voices . . . around them.

Imprints.

Colors. Sounds. Sensations . . . twisting around one another and bound like tangled threads.

Recognizable to her in a way that was still too fresh in her memory to be ignored.

Bird wings. Flames. A child’s cry.

She glanced around at their faces as she passed them, reminding herself to stay steady on her feet, trying to concentrate on her steps so she didn’t stumble.

Their suits were out of place for her. She re-dressed them in her head. Flannel jackets. T-shirts. Faded blue jeans.

In her mind, she added the man from the hallway, the one she’d run into on her way out.

It was them. The men from the lineup. FBI agents. All of them.

So, what then, had it all been a joke? A trick? A test?

She wondered if they recognized her. If they knew who she was.

She peered back at them once more as she reached her car. They didn’t seem to notice her.

Her hands shook as she got in and buckled her seat belt. She started her car and drove from the building without paying any attention to where she was headed. All of the streets downtown looked the same to her.

Had Sara set her up to see if she could really do what she suspected? Had Violet passed the test? Failed it?

Violet clenched her teeth, feeling angry and betrayed, but not really understanding why. She shouldn’t care what Sara thought she could—or couldn’t—do. And she damn sure wasn’t some guinea pig to be experimented on.

Her head was spinning again, her stomach churning violently.

She turned a corner and pulled into a crowded parking lot, not caring that there were no open spaces. She shoved the car door open and leaned outside, throwing up on the pavement. She ignored the attendant in the booth who eyed her suspiciously.

She thought about the words she’d overheard in the parking garage.

Waste of time. Bullshit.

It is bullshit, she thought furiously. At least they didn’t believe any of it. Maybe Sara wouldn’t either.

Violet sat up and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, spitting one more time to try to purge the nasty taste clinging to her tongue.

Maybe now they would leave her alone.

Unless . . .

But the thought was almost too much to even consider.

What if she hadn’t failed the test at all?

What if she’d just passed?

Chapter 14

Violet dug through the refrigerator looking for something to eat as she tried to forget about what had happened at the FBI offices that afternoon.