The Last Echo

It wasn’t until she spotted the cluster of people congregating on the other side of the woman’s sedan, when she recognized the all too familiar toe of Rafe’s scuffed black boot, that she realized just how far he’d been thrown during impact. Panic nearly choked her as she began shoving people out of her way, clawing past strangers who stood blocking her path. She ignored the sharp looks and indignant mutters as she hurtled forward, desperate to reach him.

She slowed when she got close, numbly finding her way to the center of the crowd now. Her hands shook at her sides, and when she saw him sprawled in front of her, lifeless, she fell to her knees. Above her, she could hear at least two people talking into their cell phones, reporting the incident and relaying the events of Rafe’s accident—and his injuries—to the authorities.

She tried not to listen as words like unresponsive and labored breathing infiltrated her consciousness. She dazedly watched as a woman expertly lifted his slack arm and pressed her fingers to his wrist. After a moment, the woman glanced up at a man on his cell phone and said the words thready pulse.

“Rafe.” Violet was now shaking all over, but she ignored the others, her voice tearing out of her in strident shreds. “Rafe, can you hear me?” She wanted to reach for him, to wrap him in her arms and rock him, to promise him that everything would be all right. But seeing him there, his arms and legs splayed limply around him, his eyes unblinking—he looked too damaged to touch. So instead, she ran her fingertip along the brim of his helmet, grateful he’d been wearing it. “Rafe,” she uttered on a tortured sob.

A hand gripped her shoulder. “Young lady.” The man on the cell phone stared down at her, the handset of his phone gripped firmly against his jaw. “Do you know him? Do you know who he is?” he repeated.

Violet nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the boy lying in front of her.

“What’s his name?” the man asked again, his fingers digging in harder this time.

“It’s Rafe,” Violet answered absently, a tear slipping down her cheek and falling onto Rafe’s leather jacket as she bent over him, silently begging him to wake up, to open his eyes and tell her he was okay. “His name is Rafe.”

“And his last name?”

Violet blinked, frowning as she willed herself to concentrate, willed herself to remember. What was his last name? Had she ever even heard it before? Finally, she tore her eyes away from Rafe’s limp form and stared up at the man as she wiped her chin with her sleeve. “I don’t know,” she confessed hollowly.

Chapter 13

THE EMERGENCY ROOM WAS CHAOTIC, EVEN ON a Saturday afternoon, practically combusting with echoes. Violet huddled farther into her chair, trying her best to block out the rush of sensory inputs that were both real—those that everyone around her could sense, moans and the sounds of crying babies, howls of both laughter and of pain—and those that only she could distinguish.

She hugged herself tighter, wishing once more that someone would just come out and tell her how Rafe was. It had been hours already, and she just wanted to know he was going to be okay.

She glanced at the clock on the wall above the admissions desk only to realize that barely five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked it. She hated being here alone.

The whoosh of the automatic doors drew her notice, as they had every time they opened to let someone in or out, but this time she jolted to her feet when she saw who stepped inside. She left the isolation of her seat in the corner to meet Sara halfway.

“I’ve left you a dozen messages.” Violet fumbled over her words. “It’s Rafe. We were at The Mecca . . . it’s the café where the girl worked . . . Casey Atkins . . . and when we were leaving . . .” Violet hesitated, not quite sure how to continue or how much information to give. “I didn’t see it happen,” she finally said, her vision blurring as she glanced at Sara. Sara’s own eyes were ringed with dark shadows and her hair was rumpled as if she’d just awakened, even though it was well past noon.

“The woman thought she had the right of way . . . she came right at him . . .” Violet explained, reaching for Sara’s hand, not sure what she expected from her.

She was surprised when Sara’s cold fingers clutched hers in a viselike grip. “Where is he now? Have you talked to anyone? How’s he doing?” Sara assaulted Violet with her trademark no-nonsense, rapid-fire questions.

“Last I heard, they were taking him up for an MRI. But they won’t tell me anything else. They’ll only talk to his family.”

Sara released Violet’s hand. She opened her small handbag and began scouring through it, searching for something. Violet realized she’d never seen Sara in anything other than her work clothes before—suits, skirts, heels, starched shirts. She took a moment to examine this casual, off-hours Sara who wore black yoga pants and a gray pullover sweatshirt that was easily two sizes too big for her. Sara found her wallet and pulled it from her purse as she strode toward the admissions desk, to the same stern-faced woman who’d denied Violet access just minutes earlier.

“Do you know how to reach his parents?” Violet asked hopefully, following right on Sara’s heels. Maybe now they could finally get some answers.

Sara spoke in a clipped voice over her shoulder. “Violet, you’ll have to wait out here.” And then she dropped her driver’s license on the counter in front of the desk clerk. “I need to speak to someone about a patient who was brought in.” Violet wondered why she didn’t flash a badge or something . . . anything to try to get some information out of the unsmiling woman. And then Sara spoke again, no longer paying attention to Violet. “His name is Rafe Priest,” she said. “He’s my brother.”