The Last Echo

“Pretty cool, huh?” Rafe swayed, bumping her shoulder so lightly she almost didn’t feel it.

Except that it was all she felt . . . and her cheeks burned as her breath caught in the back of her throat.

I shouldn’t be doing this, she warned herself silently. Rafe shouldn’t make me feel like this.

But it was nothing. Less than nothing, she insisted, feeling foolish for arguing with herself. Rafe was just her friend. He wasn’t Jay. He could never be Jay.

“I heard about Casey,” Violet said, unable to stop the words. “I wish we could’ve saved her. I wish I could’ve been more . . . useful.”

Rafe glanced down at her. “You were useful, V. You were the one who found the connection to the café. Who knows, that could be the key. Sara says killers have ‘hunting grounds’ and maybe that’s his. At least they have a place to start.”

Violet thought about that. It wasn’t nothing, she supposed. “So, you and Sara, huh?”

Rafe shifted on his feet, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets as he gazed back outside. “You mean that she’s my sister? Kinda no big deal, V. We’ve been related pretty much our entire lives.”

“So why not tell everyone?”

Rafe flinched, almost as if the words had been tangible, painful. He stood there for a moment, an uneasy silence engulfing them, and then stalked away, leaving her standing alone at the window. He went to the kitchen and started going through cupboards, searching for nothing in particular. “Everyone knew,” he said quietly. “You were the only one who seemed surprised by the news.”

“Because you never told me. No one ever told me.”

His back was still to her as he opened the fridge. “You never asked.”

But now she was the one who felt hurt. She glowered at him, wishing she could shoot daggers with her eyes. “Are you kidding? I have to ask or you won’t tell me anything? How was I supposed to know what to ask? You and Sara, that’s kind of a big deal. Seems like something one of you could’ve mentioned.”

Rafe slammed the door but didn’t turn around. Violet waited, wondering why he couldn’t just admit he’d made a mistake by not telling her sooner.

When at last he faced her, his cheeks were flushed, hot and red, and his eyes glittered brightly. “Not everyone has what you have,” he bit out, his voice cold, like an arctic whisper. “Not everyone has parents and a home and people who care about them. After what happened with Mike and Megan . . . with their dad—” The mention of that night in the mountain cabin made Violet recoil. “You should understand that some of us have gone through things that we don’t want to share with everyone.”

She took an uncertain step forward, not willing to let it go. “All I wanted to know was why you didn’t tell me Sara was your sister.”

“Because. I don’t want you to know me, Violet.”

Violet stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him with unblinking eyes.

He’d called her Violet. Rafe didn’t call her that; he called her “V,” his own personal nickname for her. She’d never minded, always thinking it was kind of endearing.

It hadn’t dawned on her before what it really was: his way of keeping her away.

Violet wanted to close the distance, to reach out to him.

Instead, she said, “I won’t hurt you, Rafe.”

His lashes looked impossibly black and thick against his pale skin, and suddenly he looked more boyish than Violet could have imagined possible.

Her chest ached and she blinked hard. She tried to find her voice, tried to think of something else to say, but there was nothing. Just silence. And need.

“Am I interrupting some sort of moment here?” Gemma’s voice sliced through the still that hung between them, and Violet couldn’t believe that neither of them had heard the front door open.

She turned to see Gemma gaping at them in openmouthed disgust, as if she were eyeballing a horrific car wreck. “I can come back later if you two lovebirds need some time alone.”

Violet blinked as she remembered what Gemma had said about her, about her stinking of death, and she wondered if Gemma smelled it now. Or if there was something else she sensed on her. Something infinitely more private.

Rafe managed to collect himself before Violet did, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doing here, Gemma?” He left the kitchen and went to stand next to Violet.

“Um, believe it or not, Rafe, I still live here. And last I heard, you haven’t had any luck getting me evicted, so deal with it.”

Rafe grabbed Violet’s hand, ignoring the static charge that jolted their skin the moment they touched. “Come on, I’ll show you my room,” he mumbled as he dragged Violet away from Gemma.

Gemma said something behind them, but he just slammed his door, blocking out her words. The bitter tone, however, was unmistakable.

“What is it with her?” Violet asked, peeling her hand from Rafe’s.

But before she could say anything else, she’d looked past him, and she covered her mouth in surprise. And instead of feeling uncomfortable about being alone with him in his bedroom, she suddenly felt laughter bubbling up in her throat. The last thing she’d expected was this kind of neat-freak orderliness. Not from Rafe, with his unkempt hair, ripped jeans, and threadbare T-shirts. It was almost stark it was so tidy.

But it was his bookshelves that really captured Violet’s interest. They were tall, every shelf overflowing, with books stacked in front of books. There were knickknacks too, all perfectly arranged, an old metal lunch box, mismatched picture frames . . . a troll doll with bright pink hair.