The Last Echo

Listening, he heard her engine struggling to catch. Trying and trying again, she turned her ignition. Without even peeking, he could picture her pleading with her car to start.

But it wouldn’t start. Not tonight.

After a few minutes, he stepped out from the shadows, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He knew how he looked from her vantage point: He was just an ordinary guy—a student, probably—parked in the same lot she was.

He had to be careful, to time his actions perfectly:

First, he ignored her, pretended he didn’t realize her predicament as he unlocked his own car.

Second, he started his engine. No problem there. His ignition switch was fine.

And then, just as he was about to go, to leave the girl stranded, he had a change of heart. Lucky for her.

When he reached the last step, the crucial one that would bring his plan home, he turned his car off and got back out. Lifting a hand, he waved uncertainly as he made his way timidly across the lot. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like you might need a hand.” He stayed back, though. Far enough so she’d feel comfortable, so she felt like she was the one in control.

At first she hesitated. But then, even though she didn’t actually voice it, the sudden shift in her expression said it all . . . the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, a hesitant smile. She recognized him.

It was a positive first step in their budding relationship.

She rolled down her window, watching him with her big, trusting brown eyes. Another first. “It won’t start,” she explained. She leaned forward now, feeling more comfortable.

He thought about it for several seconds, not wanting to appear too eager, too desperate, and then finally, he said, “I’d offer to take a look, but . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know a thing about cars. The best I can do is call you a tow truck.” He pulled out his cell phone.

She wrinkled her nose. “I have my phone. You don’t have to . . .”

He glanced around at the alley, wearing a practiced expression of concern. “At least let me wait with you.”

She looked too, her brow creasing as her hand shot up to her neck, nervously fingering the necklace she wore . . . a vintage locket with a small pearl inset at its center. He knew the look on her face: She was worried about what—or who—might be out there. In the shadows. “Are you sure?” she asked at last. “I don’t want to put you out.”

He just smiled at her, telling her in their new implicit way that it was fine. “How about you buy me a coffee next time I come in?”

Her lids lowered and he could practically hear her thoughts: He remembers me too. “Yes . . . next time. Of course.”

Satisfaction coursed through him: Next time would have been their second date.

Except that the moment she unlocked the passenger side door to let him in, the date had become unnecessary. She’d just agreed to take their relationship to a whole new level. She’d just agreed to become his.

He reached across then, surprising her as he threw himself on top of her. He cupped his hand over her face as he held her down, covering her mouth and nose with the plain white cloth he’d been clutching in his fist.

She struggled—they always struggled—but in that moment, their eyes met, and held.

He wondered whose heart beat faster, harder, as he leaned closer. “Shhh,” he crooned, pressing the cloth firmer against her face. Her eyes widened in response, and he knew that she’d understood his unspoken reassurance, he knew that already they were developing a wordless rapport.

He held her like that, embracing her until she stopped struggling, until she relaxed, succumbing to his adoration, his devotion. Until she accepted that she belonged to him.

Then he gently unbuckled her and carried her to his car. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear for her, just as he knew she’d have done. And when he leaned in close, his lips hovering right above her cheek, his heart fluttered and his stomach tightened. It was another first: the kiss.

He pressed his lips to her cheek, savoring the sensation of her soft skin beneath his mouth. It was warm, soft, supple.

He could hardly wait until she kissed him back.

Chapter 4

SOMETIMES VIOLET FELT LIKE A FRAUD, LIVING A double life the way she did. One part of her life was so normal, her days filled with school and homework, family and friends. The other half was riddled with secrecy and death. This had definitely been one of those days, as she’d been forced to sit through World History listening to Ms. Ritke’s lecture about Charlotte of Belgium’s tragic life, wondering how much hair spray it took to keep the teacher’s tall bouffant from losing its shape. Ms. Ritke was a student favorite and taught history as if she were giving a recap of her favorite soap opera, not focusing on dates and locations, but including all of the scandalous details like affairs, conspiracies, and incest.

But even Ms. Ritke hadn’t been enough to hold Violet’s interest after she’d gotten the text from Sara:

Need you at the Center. Can you come after school?

She didn’t tell Sara that she’d come whenever she asked. How could she not? If it hadn’t been for Sara and Rafe, Violet probably would’ve been killed that night at the cabin, when Mike and Megan’s dad had discovered she’d known the truth about how his wife had died. She owed her life to them.

But it was more than just the fact that Sara and Rafe had saved her life that made Violet want to be there, she admitted. There was something about that place—and the team—that made her feel normal. Not like such a freak.