The Last Echo

As she looked at the smiling images in the photo album, it was hard not to notice how pretty the girl was. There was a quiet sort of laughter in her eyes, buried behind her shy smiles. But what really struck Violet was that this was a girl who’d had friends, a family . . . a life.

Her heart ached. People missed her, this girl. And whoever the killer was, he’d taken her away from them. Violet wished she could do more to help her team find him, to stop him from doing this to anyone else’s daughter . . . sister . . . friend.

She closed the book and glanced up to find Rafe watching her just as she felt a tear slip down her cheek. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying.

She watched as he tucked something into his pocket, something small and silver. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand and pretended not to notice the concern on his face as she turned away again, setting the album aside. This was hard, she realized, peering into the private life of a dead girl. It was one thing to find her body, to know where she’d been discarded by her killer. It was another thing altogether to know her.

Slipping away from the solemn congregation, Violet wandered to the kitchen and grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge. She found a chair, one away from the others, and she curled up, tucking her feet protectively beneath her.

“Wanna talk about what happened back there?” Violet glanced up to find Rafe staring back at her. “Did that freak you out? It can be kind of intense.”

“No.” But the denial came a little too quickly, and then she frowned. Sighing, she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Sort of, I guess,” she admitted hesitantly. Softly. “How do you do it?”

He sat down in the chair across from her, leaning forward on his elbows and studying her intently. “Do what?” His quiet voice was even quieter now, an uncertain breeze.

“Try to understand them? Try to get inside their heads?” she whispered.

“Who? The killers, or the victims?”

“Either.” Violet shrugged.

“It wasn’t like I’ve ever had a choice in the matter,” he answered cryptically. And just when Violet thought about asking him to explain what that was supposed to mean, he spoke again, his blue eyes unguarded, his expression almost daring. “I’m guessing that’s the way it was with you too. You were never asked whether you wanted to find the dead, were you, V?”

Violet’s heart stopped. She felt cornered, like an animal trapped. It was new to her to talk openly about what she could do; the team had given her that. And even though it wasn’t yet completely comfortable for her, she was trying.

She shook her head, her unblinking eyes never leaving his.

But she wanted to know more. So much more. “So is that how it works, then? You sense things from touching them?”

“It’s different for everyone,” Krystal announced as she snuck up on them, seeming to materialize from out of nowhere and dropping onto the arm of Violet’s chair. “You know that show Medium, where the lady talks with the dead? You know, ghosts and spirits and stuff?” She shrugged. “That’s kind of how it is for me.”

Violet’s face snapped up to meet Krystal’s, her expression dubious. “Seriously? I knew you . . . you know, got messages from . . .” She hesitated, not sure how to word it. “Beyond.” It sounded so stupid when she said it out loud that she cringed a little. She tried to shrug it off. “I guess I sorta thought you did what the others do—you know, touch things.” She hated the uncertain edge in her voice. Why should she doubt that Krystal could talk to the dead, when she herself could find them by the sensory echoes that were left on their bodies?

Krystal grinned, and Violet could smell the familiar scent of jasmine—Krystal’s perfume—as she stared into her dark, honest eyes. Krystal shrugged again. “We all touch things, Violet.” But the way Krystal said it, was in the most obvious way, as if Violet hadn’t meant the whole psychometry thing. “And it’s so not as cool as it sounds. Mostly the ghosts or whoever come to me in my dreams. A lot of times I don’t even understand what they’re trying to tell me. It’s all very mysterious. I’d way rather have what Rafe has.”

“Which is . . . ?” Violet asked, so curious that she nearly forgot Rafe was sitting right there with them.

“That”—Rafe scowled at Krystal, and Violet got the sense that sharing time was over—“is really no one’s business.”

Krystal’s lip curled as she stared challengingly at Rafe. “By the way, Houdini, I saw what you did back there,” Krystal accused. “Don’t think you’re going without me.”

Rafe looked genuinely puzzled by her words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Violet glanced between them. Rafe’s expression remained blank, while Krystal’s was impassive, her stare narrowed. “Bull. I saw you slip that key in your pocket, and we both know what it opens. I’m just saying, if you go, I go.”

Now Violet was the one who was confused. She’d noticed it too, but she’d been too preoccupied with the fact that Rafe had caught her crying to realize it was a key he’d pressed into his pocket. “What does it open?” she asked, not sure who she expected to answer her.

“Her house,” they both said at once.

And then Krystal clarified by adding, “Her front door.”

Violet’s eyes widened and her voice dropped. “You stole the key to Antonia Cornett’s house? But Sara said we couldn’t go there. You aren’t planning on breaking in, are you?” She wanted no part of this, no part of Rafe’s stupid plan to break into a victim’s home and go through her things without anyone’s permission. “You’re both crazy.”