Desires of the Dead

It was flashing.

An icy chill swept over her as that realization dawned, and Violet struggled against the sudden urge to panic. Hard as it was, she forced herself not to react. She lay there, unmoving, pretending not to be awake.

There is an explanation, she chanted inwardly, repeating the words over and over. There had to be a rational explanation.

Footsteps shuffled across the wooden floor, and Violet held her breath, listening to them, following them in her mind. She thought about waking Jay, but she was too afraid to breathe, let alone move.

And even though the pain in her head was less intense than before, she recognized it immediately. It was clear, unmistakable.

It was the echo from the woods. Or rather the imprint, coming from the person responsible for burying whatever Violet had found today. But that wasn’t all. There was something other than the light and the pain that Violet couldn’t quite pinpoint.

She heard the footsteps stop in the kitchen, and the jangling of keys as they clattered onto the countertop.

Violet slowly—so, so slowly—pried her eyelids apart, her pulse clamoring wildly as she tried to maintain the pretense that she was still asleep. Every movement she made felt obvious and overdone, and she was afraid that whoever was in there would notice her. Lying awake, trying to steal a glimpse.

The flashing continued, making it difficult to remain still, as her body physically reacted to each pulse of light. Her head pounded incessantly.

When her eyes finally opened, she saw a man. Or at least, she saw the back of him, tall and thick, still wearinga heavy red-and-black-checked wool jacket. He swayed slightly, even though he was standing in place, his hand resting on the edge of the counter. And from where she was lying, Violet could smell the thick scents of stale tobacco and beer that he carried on him.

He turned then, staggering over his own clunky boots, and Violet lowered her lashes, waiting for several breaths to be sure he hadn’t spotted her there, and when she looked again, she saw a face she recognized instantly.

It was Mike’s face.

Or what she imagined Mike might look like as a weathered, middle-aged man.

It was his father, Ed Russo.

And the light flickering from his skin was unnaturally intense, painfully brilliant. Still, it might have been bearable, had Violet not known the cause of it.

She remembered the night she’d first awakened to that flashing glow, and she wondered how a man—how this man—could be responsible for the death of the small cat she’d discovered at her house.

And why . . . ?

The questions both haunted and terrified her.

And now what? Now they were here, in this remote mountain cabin, together? How could this be a coincidence?

She didn’t know what she should do now. She felt trapped by the circumstances—the weather, her location, her proximity to this killer. She didn’t have any way to reach the outside world, not without going into town to call for help, and she didn’t think it would be wise to go alone.

So what were her other options? To wake Jay? To tell the others that Mike’s dad had killed a cat and left it in her yard for her to find?

How would she explain that? Why would he have done something like that in the first place? And why Violet? As far as she knew, this was the first time she was laying eyes on him.

And then there was the note. And the phone calls. Did she really think that this man, Mike’s father, was responsible for those too?

Besides, he certainly didn’t seem aware of her now, didn’t seem to care that she was right there.

Her head was spinning—reeling—and the relentless ache was making it harder and harder for Violet to concentrate. She felt dizzy. But worse, there was something more now, something she could no longer ignore.

From the moment that she’d been awakened, the moment that this man had stepped into the room with her, Violet had been overwhelmed by the compelling urge to go back out into the woods.

Back to the echo.

Violet stayed still until long after silence descended over the cabin once more, long after Mike’s father had gone up to the loft and she heard him settling in for the night.

And then she waited even longer, just to be certain, before she slowly, cautiously, eased herself up from her sleeping bag, trying not to disturb the others around her. She didn’t want to wake Jay; she knew he would try to stop her. But she couldn’t stay here.

Her entire body quivered with need as the pain in her head was completely overcome by the absolute, all-consumingdrive to search out the echo again. Even the flashing that came in bursts from the loft above was simple to ignore in the face of her crushing desire to locate whatever was buried in the snow.

The fire was still burning, and Violet realized that someone, probably Mike or Jay, had added more wood to it during the night. Yet, despite the fire, Violet was freezing. And the idea of going out into the nearly arctic temperatures was unsettling, but not deterrent enough against the primitive craving that Violet could no longer deny.

She dressed quickly, layering herself in her heavy winter clothes, before grabbing a flashlight and moving soundlessly across the floor with her boots in her hand. She didn’t breathe as she eased the back door open, careful to keep the latch from making a sound. She dropped her boots in the snow, and stepped into them as she closed the door softly behind her.

The bitter night air cut through her lungs with her first breath. Shock rolled through her body in a vicious spasm, and the warmth that she’d hoped to carry with her, bundled within her thick down coat, was leached out in one harsh gasp.