The Last Echo

His smile grew exponentially, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something in his eyes as he watched her—a suspicion almost—that made Violet’s breath catch.

He was shoved from behind then, forced to keep moving. He somehow managed to maintain pace with the men who escorted him, even though his neck craned to keep Violet in his sights for as long as possible. Violet didn’t breathe again until he was no longer near her.

Until his imprints were no longer visible or audible to her.

Then she struggled to unravel the cobwebs that infiltrated her mind, making it hard for her to think . . . to find the missing puzzle piece. How did he know anything at all about her?

“Violet,” Sara said, standing at the other end of the hallway, her startled expression making it clear she’d overheard what James Nua had said to her. “What were you wearing yesterday?”

Violet frowned. What did it matter what she’d been wearing? How could her wardrobe choice possibly be relevant? “Jeans and a hoodie,” Violet answered. And then it came to her . . . painfully, brutally clear. Her throat went dry as she looked down at the simple black zip-front jacket she wore today. When she spoke again, her voice was just the ghost of a breath. “I was wearing my White River High School hoodie.”

Violet glanced up at Rafe, who was waiting for her while Sara filled out some paperwork and chatted with the medical examiner. They’d all three arrived together in Sara’s black SUV within half an hour of leaving the jail.

Now that she was here, Violet could feel her skin itching. Already—even from out here in the lobby—the echoes of the dead were calling to her . . . reaching out to her . . . drawing her to them.

She had yet to determine whether any of those echoes matched the imprints carried by James Nua.

“This is the autopsy suite,” the technician assigned to escort them explained as they stopped in front of the large window. From her side of the plate glass, Violet looked at the stainless steel tables, sinks, and cabinets. Glaring overhead lights reflected off the polished silver surfaces, and she could practically taste the metallic tang from all that steel in one place. The oversized room was empty now, but she imagined that this was where bodies were brought to be examined for signs of foul play, to be scoured for clues and evidence. Calling it a suite—of any kind—felt odd, considering it was cold and sterile, outfitted with scales, hoses, lights, and state-of-the-art camera equipment. It was exactly as Violet thought it would look. Only the name seemed not to fit.

Barely acknowledging Violet or Rafe, the tech focused his attention solely on Sara as he gave her “the grand tour,” leading them to where the bodies were stored. Violet was too distracted trying to extricate one echo from the next to notice the slight, and Rafe didn’t seem to care.

He had fallen quiet on the ride over, and Violet was certain it had something to do with the object in his pocket. Rafe hadn’t let it go since Sara had given it to him back at the jail.

“So, what is that?” Violet finally whispered, curiosity getting the best of her.

Rafe’s gaze met hers, his eyebrows low, scrunched together.

“That thing . . . that Sara gave you. What is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he answered, teasing her like a little boy with a secret.

Violet hated secrets.

She wanted to pretend she didn’t care, to tell him it didn’t matter what it was. But she’d be lying. She did want to know . . . more than she cared to admit. “Just show me,” she demanded, trying not to appear too eager.

Rafe stopped walking, and Sara and the tech increased their distance by several steps. “You really wanna see it?”

Violet nodded, and this time she couldn’t keep the interest from her face.

“I could really torture you, you know?” He started to pull his hand from his pocket, his expression playful, and Violet caught a glimpse of something shiny—something gold. She leaned closer. And then he shoved his hand back inside again, hiding whatever it was from sight.

“Cut it out,” she complained, crossing her arms. “If you’re not gonna show me, just say so. You don’t have to be a jerk about it.” Instead of waiting for a response, Violet turned on her heel and hurried after Sara, leaving Rafe standing there.

When he reached her, he tugged at her arm. “Come on, I was just messing with you.”

But they were already there. And Violet barely heard his words as she stood rigidly outside the door that led to the storage lockers, the place where the bodies were kept.

Even from here, the echoes were strong, reverberating deeply and making her skin burn. She strained forward, not wanting to go closer but virtually unable to resist.

As the tech explained what they could expect to see, his gaze moved anxiously from Rafe to Violet . . . as if neither of them had ever seen a dead body before. He looked worried that one of them might be sick, that this was too much for kids so young. And it might have been for any other kids; maybe it was, even, for Rafe. She had no idea if he’d ever seen a body before. But it definitely wasn’t for Violet.

At last he opened the door and let them inside. The bodies were still safely entombed within the stainless steel refrigeration units, and Violet faced a wall of small, rectangular doors, three high and six wide. Eighteen spaces. Eighteen units where bodies could be held. She had no idea how many of the spaces were occupied. From inside several of them, she could already sense the murdered dead.

Unable to stop herself, Violet stepped forward, ignoring the surprised look on the tech’s face as she brushed past him, disregarding the warnings he’d given them about staying back. She tentatively pressed her hands flat against one of the closed doors. From where she stood, Violet could feel the heat trying to find its way out, as if there were a fire trapped within the steel vault. Impossible, she knew, since the unit was refrigerated, but even from out here, that door—and only that door—shimmered and rippled, the way heat did when it rose from the asphalt of a desert highway.