The Last Echo

“So why does she try, then?”

Krystal just shrugged. “I don’t know. Gemma’s had kind of a shitty life. I think she just wanted to fit in somewhere, to have friends. I think she thought Rafe would be . . . some sort of family to her.”

“Family? I thought she wanted to date him.”

Krystal’s booming laughter filled the car, and Violet half-expected to look up to find her twirling her handlebar mustache like some sort of evil cartoon villain. “God, no. Gemma’s not interested in hooking up with Rafe . . . any more than I am. And, trust me, Rafe’s definitely not my type, if you know what I mean.” She glanced at Violet, her eyes glinting wickedly.

Violet didn’t know, but after being laughed at, she felt too stupid to ask. When she didn’t say anything, Krystal’s eyebrows inched all the way up until they looked like they were part of her hairline. “You do know what I mean, right?” Her eyes grew larger. “That he’s a dude? Not my type . . . ?” She let the words drift off, ripe with meaning.

Violet rolled her eyes. “Got it. You’re into girls. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Krystal snorted again. “Because this was way more fun.” She flipped on the radio and dialed the tuner until she found a station without too much static. “Damn, you’re easy to mess with. This is definitely worth a B&E charge.”

Violet wouldn’t even have needed to see Rafe’s motorcycle to know that he’d driven faster than they had, and probably ignored any traffic rules that were inconvenient. In her head, she pictured him zigzagging in and out of traffic, with no regard to speed limits or personal safety. His or anyone else’s. He was reckless. Jay was right.

Still, she felt a bubble of relief swell up from her chest when she realized his bike was there. And in one piece.

Krystal avoided the need to parallel park since there were no other cars around, and Violet shoved the massive door open while Rafe leaned against his motorcycle, a cocky smirk on his face. “I can’t believe that hunk of junk actually made it. I’m surprised it even starts in the mornings.”

Krystal glared at Rafe. “This car’s seen more action than you can possibly imagine. She was at Woodstock, I’ll have you know.”

A skeptical expression crossed Rafe’s face. “I sorta doubt that. I think Woodstock was before her time.”

“You don’t know. Besides, that’s what the guy who sold her to me said.”

“Yeah? Did he also tell you she was part of the moon landing? Sounds to me like you got taken.”

Krystal’s face fell, and Violet moved to stand in front of her, so Krystal wouldn’t be able to see the derisive expression in Rafe’s eyes. She scrunched her nose and shook her head, trying silently to tell Krystal to ignore him.

She thought about what Krystal had told her, that no one really liked Rafe. As she stood there, listening to his cynical tone, it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Violet didn’t know what she felt about him. She didn’t hate him, but she didn’t actually know if she liked him or not. More than anything, she felt grateful to him. And drawn to him. As if, in some strange way, the two of them shared a connection. And she supposed they did. But shouldn’t she feel that same connection, then, with the others on her team . . . since they all shared a secret?

“Whatever.” Krystal sniffed, patting the hood of her ancient Impala. “Roxy’s a great car.”

“Totally,” Violet assured her friend. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find anything useful in there.”

They moved across the street to where Rafe strode confidently toward a row of unimpressive-looking houses . . . older homes in an older neighborhood, some well kept and others in desperate need of landscaping and repair.

Violet stood still for a minute, trying to decide if any of them felt different from the rest. If there was something to indicate that the girl who’d been living in one of them had been murdered by a serial killer. But there was nothing special. Just ordinary houses on an ordinary street.

Yet, without even glancing at the house numbers, Rafe knew exactly which one belonged to Antonia Cornett. “There,” he said, pointing out the small white house with a stucco exterior and drab brown trim.

Violet tried to sense whether there was something out of place—anything only she might be aware of. Maybe the person responsible was nearby—a neighbor or a landlord. Didn’t they say that most victims were attacked by people they knew?

She didn’t know if that was a real statistic or not, but after a moment of concentrating she realized that her ability wasn’t going to help her this time. She would have to depend on Rafe or Krystal.

Approaching the house, Violet could see the crime-scene tape, hidden beneath the metal mesh of the screen door. It had been left as a warning, and even though it hadn’t been completely evident from the street, Violet couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the bright yellow strips sooner.

She hesitated. She was about to break the law.

Unlike her, Rafe didn’t stop. He ignored the warning and yanked the tape away so he could unlock the door.

Violet stood at the top of the steps, glancing one last time over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching them, but the street was practically deserted.

When she turned around again, she placed her hand against Rafe’s back, not sure if she was pushing him to hurry, or silently begging him to stop before it was too late. All the while, she pretended not to notice how warm he was beneath her fingertips.