The Last Echo

“Jay!” the little girl’s voice squealed, interrupting them. “Catch me!”

Looking up, Violet saw Cassidy perched atop the tall slide, her arms waving to them. “I’m bigger!” she announced proudly.

As if their actions were synchronized, they both jumped off the swings at the same moment, Jay racing toward the laddered steps as Violet rushed to reach the bottom of the slide.

“Come on down, Cassie. I’ll catch you,” Violet coaxed.

The girl’s eyes narrowed obstinately, her voice so determined, yet so tiny, reminding Violet how little she really was. “No. Jay can catch me.”

“Jay’s right behind you. Stay there, he’ll help you get down.”

Cassidy turned to see Jay, who was almost to the top of the ladder, and then she turned back to Violet, her expression changing dramatically. “He’s gonna get me . . .” The singsong quality of her voice was frantically enthusiastic. This was definitely a game to her.

Just as Jay was in arm’s reach, Cassidy giggled and leaned forward, launching herself down the slide. She went fast . . . faster than Violet had expected the tiny three-year-old to go, almost as if the slide had been greased.

By the time she reached Violet’s outstretched arms, she was moving like some sort of missile bent on a path of destruction. And when she collided against Violet’s chest, Violet gasped sharply from the impact. Yet even as she wrapped her arms tightly around her cousin, she heard herself scolding her. “You can’t do that, Cass . . . you scared me . . . you could’ve gotten hurt. . . .”

And as she said the words, she heard them in her own head, repeated back to her . . . in her mother’s voice.

Violet grimaced, dragging herself awake as she realized she’d fallen asleep on the couch. The television flickered through the dark room. Her dad must’ve turned the volume all the way down before he’d gone up to bed because there was no sound coming from it.

She had to admit, she was glad he’d stayed up with her. Even though she didn’t always agree with her parents, she could count on her dad to be the voice of reason.

“Do you hate us?” her dad had asked when he’d joined her on the couch while she’d absently flipped through the channels.

Still trying to ignore him, Violet shook her head. “Nope. Not hate,” she’d answered. “Just . . .” She shrugged. What? she wondered. Frustrated? Irritated? Sad? “I don’t know, pissed, I guess.”

Her dad made a tsking sound, a warning to watch her language, but he’d asked, “At us?”

Violet turned to look at him, considering his question. “Well, yeah. But not just at you. At everything, I guess. I really don’t wanna talk about it, if that’s okay.”

He’d patted her knee but stayed where he was, quietly staring at the screen. After a moment, he said, “You can be mad, Vi. At me, and your mom . . . at whatever you want. Just don’t stay that way. Hate and anger are tough emotions to hang on to. They’ll eat you up.”

Violet had sighed. It was so hard to stay mad at her dad, and after a few moments, she’d leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wish you’d trust me to decide if I should stay on Sara’s team or not.”

He’d tipped his head so it was leaning on top of hers. “I know you don’t understand this now, but sometimes you need to trust us to make the best decisions for you.”

They’d stayed there like that, the silence stretching, until finally he patted her knee, calling a truce and changing the subject. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to Uncle Stephen’s with us tomorrow night? Aunt Kat’s making tacos. I know you like tacos.”

Violet shook her head. “No thanks. I’m not feeling up for it. I’m gonna see if Jay wants to come over and hang out.”

His brows had drawn together. “Are you sure you’re okay, Vi? Anything I should be worried about?”

Violet exhaled noisily and stretched her legs. “Nope. I really don’t feel like being social.” She squeezed her hands, making fists with both of them and opening them again. “But mostly I’m just exhausted.”

Chapter 20

VIOLET GLANCED DOWN AT THE PIECE OF PAPER Sara had ripped from her notebook just before she’d left the hospital, just a scrap . . . with an address scribbled on it. Sara’s address. Rafe’s address.

The huge brick-and-steel building she stood in front of was just blocks from Chinatown and definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d expected to find when she got there. She chewed on the side of her finger, rethinking her decision to come here at all. Maybe it would’ve been better if she stayed away from Rafe. She couldn’t help remembering the way she’d itched to reach across the sheets that day at the hospital, and she wondered if it hadn’t been more than just concern over an injured friend.

Her thumb was hovering over the buzzer as she tried to decide, part of her wanting to stay, part of her wanting to flee, when she saw Rafe pushing open the entrance to the building, an imposing outer door with bars across the paned glass.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious about showing up without calling first. “How did you know I was here?”

Rafe studied her, and a part of her expected him to say he’d predicted her visit, but what she got was far less interesting. “I had to get up and stretch my legs. I don’t care what Sara says, it can’t be good for anyone to stay in bed that long. I saw your car when I was looking out the window.”