She pulled her hand out of his grip. And again she was mad at him for letting her go, despite her words and her actions. She didn’t turn back; she just left him standing there. But she knew he was watching her the same way she knew she wanted to turn around and take it all back.
She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care what he thought, or believed, because she loved him. And she needed him.
But she couldn’t. Because it did matter.
At lunch, Violet sat alone in her car so she wouldn’t risk running into Jay again.
She checked her phone for the thousandth time, to see if Sara Priest had called, and realized she was disappointed when there weren’t any new messages.
There was a part of her, and she wasn’t sure how small that part was anymore, that hoped Sara hadn’t given up on her just yet.
Recently, Violet had time to think about everything that had happened, including how Sara Priest had come into her life . . . through her discovery of the boy. And suddenly things seemed a little clearer, which should have been frightening, disturbing even, considering that the rest of her life was such a mess. Instead it made perfect sense to Violet.
The way she’d reacted the past several months: withdrawing, keeping Jay—and everyone else around her—at arm’s length, afraid to let them get too close.
She’d been so afraid of letting anyone else get hurt because of her.
But now she knew; now she understood it wasn’t her fault. None of it. She couldn’t help what she did, what she was capable of, any more than if she’d been born without the ability to find the dead. It was just a part of who she was.
And Violet didn’t want to ignore that part of her anymore. There was nothing wrong with it . . . with her. In fact, it might even be useful. It had been useful.
And she remembered how she’d felt before, when she’d searched for a serial killer. Like she had a purpose.
She’d felt good. Valuable. Alive.
She wanted that again. She wanted to find a way to recapture those feelings, to have a reason for her “gift.”
She didn’t want to hide anymore or to have secrets, at least not from those she trusted.
Maybe Rafe was right; maybe Sara Priest could be that solution.
Unless Sara wasn’t interested in Violet any longer. Unless Sara Priest had grown tired of waiting for her to decide.
But Violet couldn’t worry about that yet. She had other things to figure out first.
Like, just who were those she could trust?
Violet waited in her last class for as long as she could before venturing out into the nearly deserted hallways, and then outside, to the parking lot. The grounds were quiet—eerily so—but Violet preferred it that way.
The very idea of bumping into Megan, or just seeing her in passing, made Violet’s skin crawl.
So when Violet heard a voice calling her name, a girl’s voice, her legs suddenly felt weak. Until she recognized the abrasive tone.
Without turning, she smiled to herself as she waited for Chelsea to catch up.
“Hey, didn’t you hear me? God, where’s the freaking fire?” Chelsea complained with exaggerated breathlessness. And then she immediately forgot she was upset. “Hey, you don’t mind if I catch a ride, do you? I rode with Jules this morning, but she’s staying after with Claire to work on their science paper, and I really don’t want to hang out with them in the library. Plus, you know Mrs. Hertzog hates me. She’ll just spend the whole time shushing me.”
“No,” Violet drawled sarcastically, walking toward her car and trying to keep a straight face. “Not you, Chels. You’re as quiet as a mouse.”
“I know, right? She’s crazy.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets, shrugging indifferently as she kept pace with Violet. And then her eyes widened. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper from her right-hand pocket. She held it out to Violet. “Jay asked me to give this to you.”
Violet saw her name written in Jay’s handwriting on the outside of the note, and her heart squeezed. She didn’t want to take it, but ignoring it, leaving it in Chelsea’s hand, wasn’t really an option either. She grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket.
Chelsea’s usual flippant expression faded and she leaned in close to Violet, almost as if she were afraid someone might see this side of her. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s been all sad doll lately too.”
“What are you talking about, Chels?”
Chelsea stopped walking and stared at Violet.
“Jay. I’m talking about Jay, Vi. I thought you might want to know that you’re not the only one who’s hurting. He’s been moping around school, making it hard to even look at him. He’s messed up . . . bad.” Just like the other night in Violet’s bedroom, something close to . . . sympathy crossed Chelsea’s face.
Violet wasn’t sure how to respond.
Fortunately sympathetic Chelsea didn’t stick around for long. She seemed to get a grip on herself, and like a switch had been flipped, the awkward moment was over and her friend was back, Chelsea-style: “I swear, every time I see him, I’m halfway afraid he’s gonna start crying like a girl or ask to borrow a tampon or something. Seriously, Violet, it’s disgusting. Really. Only you can make it stop. Please make it stop.”
Violet didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help smiling at the absurd picture that Chelsea painted of Jay. And even though she knew it wasn’t very mature to feel smug at a time like this, especially over the delusional image concocted by her mentally unhinged friend, she couldn’t help herself; she laughed anyway.