The Last Echo

But when she reached the kitchen, her back stiffened and her grip around the knife’s handle tightened reflexively. She stood motionless as her eyes, still irritated from the imprint of burnt rubber, scanned the room.

She didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t matter. Violet knew she wasn’t alone.

The back door stood wide open, and she tried to imagine a scenario when it had ever blown open before, even during a windstorm. She knew it had never happened.

She opened her mouth, meaning to call out, to see if maybe her parents had come home. But her instincts told her to be still. Silent. So she waited.

And then she saw it, and her throat tightened to the size of a needle, making her breath come out on a painful wheeze.

It was her purse, with its familiar jeweled skull and crossbones, sitting in the center of the kitchen table as if it had never been missing at all. As if she’d never dropped it in the first place.

She thought of James Nua’s brother, and the threatening calls Sara had received, but she knew now that he had nothing to do with this.

Each beat of her heart was palpable. Each breath excruciating as she stood there, wondering where he was, suddenly understanding the prickling sensations. Suddenly understanding why her hands and feet stung so violently, and wondering how she hadn’t caught on sooner. She knew too why her eyes burned. And she recognized another imprint, one she’d dismissed because it was overshadowed by the smell of charred rubber . . . it was the bitter taste of rubbing alcohol.

These weren’t Carl’s imprints; they were Caine’s. These were the echoes of the dead girls he’d wanted to love.

What happened next was so sudden Violet barely had time to blink. From behind the kitchen counter there was a flash of movement, and then he was there, out in the open and descending on her. It was both lightning-fast and molasses-slow. She was just clearheaded enough to get a good look at his face, to recognize what Rafe had meant when he’d said he understood why the girls wouldn’t be afraid of him.

He was handsome. So very, very handsome, she thought just as he collided with her, knocking her flat on her back. And before she could even breathe again, his knee jammed in her stomach and her eyes went wide as she exhaled loudly, noisily, painfully.

He didn’t speak to her. In fact, he remained awkwardly silent as he gazed down at her, his expression less than predatory. If Violet hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she saw regret in his eyes.

“Please. Don’t . . . do . . . this . . .” Violet panted, gasping for breath beneath his weight.

He didn’t respond to her, just continued to watch her with that same remorse-filled gaze.

If she could just make it to the door, she told herself. These were her woods. Even in the dark, she was sure she could lose him.

With a sudden burst, Violet rolled swiftly and unexpectedly to her side. She still had the knife in her hand, and even though her fingers shook, she knew she could use it if she had to. And she was almost certain she would have to.

Caine was pitched off balance by the sudden movement and she slipped out from beneath him as her survival instincts kicked in. She heard him topple behind her and she jumped to her feet, staggering dizzily for a moment before gaining her balance.

It wasn’t until she felt his hand close around her ankle, his fingers gripping her firmly, that she turned, and without thinking swung the knife. She watched as it arced through the air and her heart stopped.

But what she didn’t count on was losing her balance.

He jerked her foot, the one he was clutching, and Violet reeled, falling out of control. She careened forward, toward him, and even as she flailed, she still hoped she might cut him with the knife she clutched in her fist.

She heard his sharp gasp just as she felt the knife, and its sharp point, slide uselessly across the floor beneath her. And then she hit the ground too, all the way this time, landing in a panting heap on her stomach, her hands splayed clumsily around her. She scrambled, moving as quickly as she could, struggling to get up. But her right hand slipped in something wet and slick on the hardwood, and she slid back down, banging her cheek against the floor once more.

She heard him above her. “Shh . . . it’s okay,” he assured her, his voice as beautiful as his face. Quiet and soothing. The voice of a devil. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”

Violet turned her head, tears filling her eyes as she looked at him again, wondering why he’d chosen her. Wondering what she’d done to deserve this.

She saw the blood then. On the floor and on him, and realized that she had cut him. Just not badly enough.

She watched as his hand came toward her, grasping a cloth that was once white, but was now stained red with blood from his hand.

“No,” she whimpered. “Pl—” But the cloth was already covering her face now, and she could no longer smell the stench of burning rubber. All she could smell was a cloying sweetness that seemed to seep into every part of her.

She felt dizzy, and her limbs went limp . . .

. . . and then there was nothing.

Chapter 22

THE FIRST THING SHE WAS AWARE OF WAS HER breathing. She was still breathing. She knew because each breath took far too much effort and wasted far too much energy. Yet she couldn’t stop them from coming, the breaths. One, and then another, and then another. Each one was slow and shallow and difficult.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pry her eyelids open. They were heavy, as if they’d been weighted down. With rocks or maybe bricks. Something immovable.