The Last Echo

She stared at him, her eyes still wide.

He took her silence as consent; she didn’t understand the rules yet. “Good, but you need to know. . . .” The warning in his voice was clear. “If you scream, I leave. No food, no water, no . . . treats.” He set the polish down with a meaningful crack. “Understood?”

Her brow creased into a frown. She understood.

“Good,” he repeated, this time more cheerfully. He freed her mouth and turned to get her some water. They always wanted water first.

That was when he heard her. Her raspy voice warbled behind him as her body went rigid with effort, screaming—or at least trying to. “Help!” she croaked, her parched voice trying to find purchase. “Someone! Please . . . help me . . .” Her last words drifted away on a sob, as she realized, belatedly, that her own voice had failed her.

But he wasn’t concerned with her voice, or with her tears. She had failed him. She had screamed. He hated it when they screamed.

He stood abruptly, reaching for the gag and jerking it back over her mouth. He was rough—too rough probably, and he’d have to apologize later. But for now, she deserved it. She’d hurt him.

Tears burned in his eyes, stinging, but he blinked them away. He couldn’t let her think he was weak or fragile.

“I warned you,” he admonished sharply. “Now you get nothing.”

He kept his back to her as he gathered his things and hurried toward the door. He needed to get out of there, to be alone—away from her—so he could collect his thoughts and breathe again. So he could stop trying so hard not to cry.

On his way out, he blew out the candle, leaving her alone. In the dark.

Chapter 5

VIOLET WAITED WHILE KRYSTAL SHOVED ASIDE magazines and wadded-up drive-through bags, clearing a space for her. Roxy’s white interior was some sort of leather, or more likely vinyl, and smelled musty in the way old cars did, like mildew and oil and damp carpet. And, of course, lingering with all of those smells Violet could also make out Krystal’s jasmine perfume.

Business cards were strewn across the dashboard, each one identical to the next, and Violet reached for one. Big rainbow-colored print spelled out the words The Crystal Palace on shiny black cardstock, and beneath that, in smaller print, it read: “Psychic Readings, Spiritual Advice, Numerology, Tarot, Tea Leaves. By Appointment or Walk-in.”

Krystal had handwritten her name—Krystal Devine—and her cell phone number on each of the cards in sparkly silver pen. Violet slipped one of the cards into her purse, grinning as she imagined Krystal waving her hands in front of a crystal ball, a jewel-encrusted turban perched on her head.

When Krystal climbed into the driver’s seat, the car creaked and dropped at least half a foot on her side. Violet clutched the door handle to steady herself as she wondered if the ancient car was even street-legal. She pictured the steel body dragging across the road as it drove, sparks shooting up in its wake. Krystal didn’t seem to notice the dip, but then she reached down to the clunky console mounted on the floorboards between them and tapped the black plastic wastebasket that was sitting there. “If you feel sick, puke in there, will ya?”

Violet scrunched her nose, suspiciously eyeballing her friend. “Why would I get sick?”

Krystal started the noisy engine as she draped her arm over the back of the bench seat and turned to watch while she backed out of the parking space. Violet noted the sheer volume of rings on the hand closest to her, taking up space on every finger. “Bad shocks,” Krystal stated flatly as the car hit a tiny pothole and they were both pitched harrowingly close to the car’s ceiling, making it more than clear how useless the 1970s lap belts that strapped them in actually were.

“Oh,” said Violet, everything seeming to make sense now. The car leveled out, and Krystal shoved the gear into drive as she pulled onto the main road, heading in the same direction Rafe had gone on his motorcycle. “Is that why Rafe didn’t want to ride with us?”

Krystal snorted. “Nah. Rafe’s just kind of a lone wolf, if you know what I mean?”

Violet was confused. “Not really. What do you mean?”

“You know,” Krystal answered, pursing frosty blue lips that made her look practically corpselike. As she reached the entrance to the freeway, she frowned, glancing at both of the overhead signs, looking completely lost. “Wait! Which way was it again?”

Violet looked down at the directions they’d printed from one of the computers at the Center. “You need to head north,” she explained. And then she turned back to the topic of Rafe. “No, I don’t know. You’ve known him longer than I have.”

“That’s kinda the thing, I guess. No one really knows him. He doesn’t let anyone get close. Mostly, he keeps to himself. The only one who ever really tries with him is Gemma.”

Violet understood that much, at least. She knew exactly what Krystal meant about Rafe keeping to himself. She’d felt that same thing whenever she was around him . . . that he would only let her get so close before he pushed her away again, putting up his defenses to keep her out. “So . . . she likes him? Gemma, I mean,” Violet ventured, hoping Krystal didn’t read more into the question than there was. It was normal to be curious about the people you worked with, wasn’t it?

“Mmm . . .” Krystal frowned, reaching up to rub one of her necklaces absently. “I’m not sure anyone likes him. None of us really knows Rafe that well, I guess.”