The Last Echo

But the unsteady rhythm beating within her chest had nothing to do with Rafe. “Are you guys sure about this?” Violet worried, gnawing her lip.

Rafe shrugged her hand away. “If you don’t want to go in, then you should wait in the car. If you stand out here someone might notice.” He sounded irritable as he dropped the key back into his pocket and reached for the handle. But when the tumbler clicked, he turned to grin at the two girls triumphantly. “I won’t be long,” he promised, slipping inside and leaving the door open behind him.

Krystal had no qualms about following him, and she just shrugged at Violet before she trailed after Rafe, leaving Violet to make up her mind. Violet stood there, staring into the open doorway.

She poked her head inside as she gripped the doorjamb, not yet willing to let her toes cross the threshold as she watched Krystal and Rafe stroll boldly into the living room.

The interior of the house was small, and it was fascinating for Violet to watch Rafe, who looked as if he’d been there before, as if he knew what he was doing . . . what he was searching for. He stroked his hand across the back of the couch—a couch on which Antonia Cornett had sat, not so long ago. He stopped every so often, picking up items and examining them. But they weren’t the items most people would even look twice at.

He didn’t sift through her mail or pick up photos and knickknacks she’d collected, the sentimental items. Instead, he chose random things: a jacket, his fingers brushing over the wool; a stack of magazines that he thumbed through absently; a laptop, powered down now, but he paused there, settling his palm over the keys.

Krystal, on the other hand, dropped onto one of the chairs and closed her eyes, almost as if she were meditating. Violet studied her for a moment, envious of her urban fashion sense, the edginess of her bold clothing and makeup. But there was something else about Krystal, a prettiness that was almost lost beneath the indigo streaks—Krystal’s color of the week—that shot through her gleaming black hair. Her hair framed skin that was such a pale shade of olive that Violet wondered if only one of her parents was Asian. Her dark eyes were both exotic and expressive, and her full lips were almost always smiling.

Even now, deep in concentration, they curved upward.

Violet wondered if she was listening for something, waiting for the spirits to speak to her.

Rafe moved deeper into the house, out of Violet’s sight, and Violet leaned farther through the doorway, not wanting to miss what was happening. There was no way she was going to wait outside while Rafe was in there discovering the girl’s secrets, maybe learning something that might help them find the killer.

She took one tiny, insignificant step inside, and was surprised when she felt no different standing inside the doorway than she had when she’d been outside it. Except that now she was most certainly breaking the law.

And there was a part of her, much larger than she cared to admit, that found it thrilling, as adrenaline coursed through her.

She pulled the door closed behind her, deciding that she might as well not draw any added attention to what they were doing. She walked more quickly now, slipping silently past Krystal, not wanting to disturb her trance, or whatever it was. Following the path Rafe had, Violet let her fingers brush over the things he’d touched.

When she’d read about psychometry, one of the articles had said that everything carries energy vibrations and that those who are sensitive to them are aware of those energies. Some of those people know how to interpret what they sense. Violet stopped at the laptop and settled her hand in the exact same place Rafe’s had been.

She waited, but felt nothing. Just cold, still computer keys.

“I wondered how long you’d last.” Violet jumped. “I was starting to think you were really planning to stand guard out there the whole time.”

When she looked up, Rafe was grinning at her from behind a cutout in the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. He shoved his black hair to the side before he went back to digging through one of the drawers. Violet heard the tinny clattering of silverware.

“I should’ve just called 9-1-1 and turned you in myself,” she retorted as she turned in a complete circle, taking in the house around her. “So?” she asked, pivoting back to face him. “Find anything?”

Rafe shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m gonna check out the rest of the house. I don’t want to miss something important.”

Violet moved absently toward his voice . . . toward him. There was enough light coming in from outside, through the curtained windows in the living room, that they didn’t need to turn the lights on. Better, since they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that they were in here.

She followed Rafe into the short hallway, leaving Krystal behind. He slowed as he approached a door, and Violet stepped closer, leaning forward until she was practically pressed against his back, as she tried to see past him to the room beyond.

Inside was a bedroom. The bed was unmade—messy and rumpled—with pillows and blankets cascading haphazardly onto the floor. Clothes dangled from open dresser drawers. There was a framed black-and-white print of a sailor kissing a nurse hanging on the wall above the bed. It was a familiar poster, something Violet had seen in frame shops and print stores dozens of times before.

Rafe didn’t stop.

“Don’t you want to look in there?”

“It’s not her room,” he told her, leaving Violet to wonder once more about his ability. How could he possibly know for sure?