It was like a scrapbook of her life, hanging right there on the wall . . . in plain sight.
“They’re over here,” Violet said, trying to draw Rafe’s attention away from the collection of memorabilia. Knowing what he could do—his ability to glean information from a simple touch, especially from items of importance or with sentimental value—made her uneasy about his being in the presence of such intimate details of her life. Like he might uncover her most personal thoughts and feelings and secrets.
“I never realized you were so talented with your tongue.” His voice was subdued, but she heard a hint of amusement.
“Excuse me?”
He reached out and tapped one of the pictures. In it, Violet and Chelsea were flanking Jules, squishing her between them, and each of them had their tongues sticking all the way out, as if, at any moment, they were planning to assault her by licking her cheeks. Jules, on the other hand, looked typically bored by their antics, and Claire was crammed all the way to the back of the booth so that only her hair was visible behind the rest of them.
Violet grinned, puckering one side of her lips. “You don’t know all my tricks.”
He rolled his eyes and came over to inspect the box of journals she’d set on her bed for him.
He watched thoughtfully as she reached inside and handed him a single diary. “Here,” she told him. “Maybe you can figure something out.”
Rafe took it, his expression uncertain. “What about the rest?”
Violet wasn’t ready to part with all of them, not now that she’d just gotten to know her grandmother . . . really know her. Besides, he only needed the one that had entries about the Circle of Seven . . . it was the only one that was relevant. She still didn’t know what happened beyond that last entry she’d read, the one in which Muriel had died. “I’ll give them to you after I’m finished.”
He hesitated, and then his eyes shifted, as if searching for something. Violet followed his gaze until it landed on the ivory music box on her bedside table. “She loved that song, you know?” he told Violet. “She bought it for your mother . . . when she was just a baby.”
A lump formed in Violet’s throat. “How could you . . . ? You didn’t even touch it—” She stopped herself, because the answer was so obvious. “It—it doesn’t say that in there.” She pointed to the book in his hand, still amazed by what he could do, and knowing that one thing didn’t have to have anything to do with the other. Rafe’s ability was about “reading” things that were important, and the journal must have triggered something for him . . . something about the music box. “It’s just that easy for you, huh?” she said instead.
His lips pressed together, not an unpleasant gesture. “Yep. Sometimes things are just that simple.”
“Let’s hope you get more than just a feeling about a music box,” Violet said.
Even though school had just let out, by the time they got back to campus, the lot was practically deserted. That was the thing about the last bell of the school day, it was like signaling the start of some sort of race, and the students couldn’t clear out fast enough. Rafe had to go back to pick up Gemma, and Violet needed to get her car before heading back home to power through more of the journals, searching for clues as to how Dr. Lee, her grandmother, and Rafe’s mother all fit together.
But when they got there, Jay’s shiny black Acura was parked beside Violet’s car, and Gemma was perched against it, her arms folded and her lips pursed in a sulk. But even without Gemma’s pout, the fact that Jay was actually letting her lean against his car indicated something was wrong, since he generally parked his car in the back forty so no one could even breathe on it.
Violet glanced his way and realized that his expression didn’t match Gemma’s at all. He didn’t look annoyed the way she did . . . he looked pissed.
Her stomach plummeted, dropping all the way to her toes, as Rafe pulled his motorcycle to a stop in front of them. Jay shoved away from the bumper of Violet’s car, where he’d been waiting for her.
Rafe didn’t help matters though. From behind her, Violet heard him chuckle. “This looks like a personal issue,” he said. And then he called to Gemma. “You ready?”
Coward, she thought spitefully, although she was partly grateful he and Gemma were leaving. And when she finally heard the drone of his motorcycle behind her, growing farther and farther away, she let out the breath she’d been holding.
“So not only did you skip school to hang out with . . . him,” Jay ground out, his eyes scouring her face as he glared down at her, searching for something . . . bits of truth he thought she was hiding from him. “But you didn’t bother to tell me where you were going or what you were doing? Isn’t it bad enough you lie to your friends? I mean, I get that; I know you have to. But now you’re lying to me too?” She tried to reach out to him, but he jerked away from her touch as if it repulsed him. As if she repulsed him, and Violet withered inside, her knees suddenly unsteady beneath her as she struggled to remain upright.
“Jay . . .” she said. “It’s not like that.”
“Right.” He squared his chin, his words cutting through her like icy blades. “I guess I just don’t know what to believe anymore, Vi. I guess I don’t know how many more secrets I can handle.”
Violet recoiled, his meaning finding its mark. It was the one thing she’d always worried about, that the secrets would get the best of her. Bury her.
He was right, it was bad enough that she lied to everyone else . . . that she’d spent an entire lifetime lying. She shouldn’t be lying to him too.
She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but he was already walking away from her.
“Jay, wait!” she called after him, her voice sounding far too quiet coming from her mouth.
She heard the slam of his car door as he shut her out, right before he peeled out of the parking lot, and she knew . . .
He was tired of waiting for her to figure things out.
Violet replayed that moment over and over and over again. She and Jay had argued before. Heck, they’d even fought once in the third grade, throwing unsophisticated punches and pulling each other’s hair. Their parents had grounded both of them for a week after Violet had given him a black eye, all because he’d said that Justin Timberlake lip-synched all of his songs. He’d never dared to say it again.
But this was so much different from some stupid childhood spat. This was serious and real, and Violet worried that, because Jay was right this time, because she’d lied one too many times, it might be irreparable as well.
She’d tried calling him again and again, but he was ignoring her calls and sending them straight to voice mail. If he’d been working, it would have been easy for her to force him to at least hear her out; he’d have been a captive audience at the auto parts store. But it was his day off.
She went to all their usual places: Java Hut, the park where they used to hang out, the library (even though they hadn’t been there in ages), the lake, Wally’s, and even to the school to see if he’d gone back there. But he was nowhere, making it even clearer to Violet that he had no intention of being found. At least not by her.
Making it clear to Violet that she’d made an utter and complete mess of things.
When she’d finally given up and gone home, she was in no mood for chitchat about her day, so she’d stalked up to her room and slammed her door. When her mom had asked if she wanted dinner, she insisted she wasn’t hungry—which was another lie, but one she was prepared to live with if it meant not having to explain why she didn’t want to talk, or why her eyes were uncharacteristically red and puffy.
Instead, she burrowed into her bed, and into her grandmother’s journals, searching for information.
CHAPTER 10
VIOLET HAD HOPED TO TALK TO JAY AT SCHOOL the next day, and she would have even if it meant stalking him and forcing him to face her . . . except Jay didn’t show up at school. She’d waited all day, thinking at first he was just late. And then later, when he still wasn’t
there, that he must’ve had a doctor or dentist appointment he hadn’t had the chance to tell her about . . . you know, since he wasn’t talking to her and all. But by lunchtime Violet was convinced he was skipping school in order to avoid her.
It made her day tick by painfully . . . excruciatingly slow, as she worried more and more about just how much damage she’d actually done, and whether or not it could be fixed this time.
Rafe, of course, was his usual tactful self, asking her if she’d finally dumped her backwoods boyfriend and was ready to “trade up.” Instead of giving him a black eye, which Violet seriously considered, she decided it was best if she steered clear of Rafe for the time being. They might be working on uncovering a mystery that only the two of them knew about, but he was annoying as hell.
And clearly, he was toxic to her relationship.
When Jay didn’t show up for a second day of school, Violet felt physically ill, her stomach churning uncontrollably as she tried to choke down her sandwich at lunch and pretend it didn’t bother her that her boyfriend was willing to ditch school just to avoid her.
After throwing most of her food away, Violet escaped to the girls’ room, locking herself in one of the stalls as she took out her cell phone, knowing that calling Jay again was pointless. She opted instead for a text. A simple message that she meant more sincerely than she’d ever meant anything in her life:
No more secrets, ever. I swear.
She tucked her phone back into her pocket and leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the stall door. Hopefully he’d understand just how hard this was for her, making a promise to open up to him in every way. It wasn’t like her to bare all to anyone . . . even to someone she trusted with her life.
Even to Jay.
But if that’s what she had to do to keep him, then so be it. Because she didn’t want to do this . . . any of it . . . without him. She didn’t want to be without him.
She knew it meant telling Jay about her imprint, and what Rafe had done to get rid of it. Telling him everything Dr. Lee had said and done to make her stay on the team and the months she’d kept it from him. And explaining her grandmother’s and Rafe’s mother’s roles in the Circle of Seven.
All of it.
And it was worth it. If only he’d forgive her.
If only he’d call her back.
CHAPTER 11
VIOLET STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AND appraised the indigo blue maxi dress that swished around her ankles, wishing she had something a little more funeral-y to wear. Eventually she’d decided that with her mom’s cardigan it at least looked church-ish, which would have to be good enough. Besides, she reminded herself, it wasn’t like she was actually planning to attend the funeral. She was simply planning to spy on it.
But she still didn’t want to be disrespectful, not this day of all days. Not to the family being put into the ground. This was their time to find peace, and Violet didn’t feel like a pair of jeans and a T-shirt were appropriate attire, even from a distance.
Jay had skipped school for two days, which had made it nearly three days since she’d seen him. She wanted to convince herself that she was numb about it, that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep the past three nights, but she’d be lying . . . again. And the new, more honest Violet was trying not to do that. Least of all, to herself.
But today was Friday, the day of the funeral, and now she was the one playing hooky. She grabbed the directions off the printer and stuffed them into her purse before slipping on some flats and rushing out the door. She didn’t want to be late.
The sight of a car parked in her driveway brought her up short, nearly causing her to trip down her own front steps.
She tried to think fast, to come up with an excuse for the way she was dressed since she’d texted her friends to tell them she was staying home sick today, but it was too late. Chelsea was already slamming her driver’s-side door behind her, a look of single-mindedness on her face. Jules was right behind her, and Claire, not to be outdone, but also not willing to get out of the car, unrolled her window from the backseat.
“Where the heck are you going in that getup?” Chelsea asked.
“Um, I . . .” Violet faltered, coming up blank. She tried to turn the conversation around as she glanced at Claire, who’d pulled out a compact and was dabbing at her lip gloss. “Shouldn’t you guys be at school?”
“Yeah,” Chelsea stated. “But it’s lunchtime, and since Jay wasn’t at school again, and you’ve been all Mopey McMoperson lately, we thought we better stop by to make sure everything was okay. Clearly, it is, and you’re off to some big shindig at the local feed store.” Chelsea pointed at her dress. “Hope you get there before all the good hitchin’ spots are gone.”
“It’s not that bad,” Violet said, defending her fashion choice.
Jules snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, Little House on the Prairie. You and Pa gonna rustle up some vittles for supper?”
“At least lose the sweater,” Chelsea offered. “You look like your mom.”
Claire, still sitting in the car, glanced up. “She’s right, V. You totally do.”
Violet glanced down at the dress, thinking how much she’d liked it when she’d tried it on. Remembering, too, that it had been Chelsea who’d talked her into buying it in the first place, telling her how the halter top showed off her shoulders. Of course that was before she’d covered them up with her mom’s oversized cardigan. “Sorry, guys. I . . . gotta run. I’ll call you later.”
“So you’re really not gonna tell us what this is all about, are you?” Chelsea drawled as if she wasn’t at all surprised by Violet’s secrecy.
Violet felt a stab of guilt as she turned her back on her friends and climbed into her car. More secrets, she thought regretfully, trying to squelch the feeling as she pulled out of her driveway and watched her friends disappear in her rearview mirror.
While she was driving, she reached for her purse, digging around for the directions she’d printed, but couldn’t find them. It didn’t matter, though. She knew the general direction, and even before she’d reached the gates of the cemetery, she knew she was in the right place. She had to blink several times as colors began to blot her vision. And, of course, there was the smell.
This was definitely it, she thought, pulling her car to a stop behind a large procession that was already parked up and down the narrow road. She had to get out and walk the rest of the way, picking her way past the grave markers and headstones as other—less familiar—sensations pricked at her.
Most were dull, the way they always were once they were buried . . . staticky and bleeding into one another. Like the animals buried in Shady Acres. But some managed to find their way above the rest, demanding to be noticed.
A ripping sound, like paper. Tear after tear after tear.
The smell of laundry detergent, strong enough that it nearly made her eyes water.
And then there was the one that made Violet turn around, more than once, checking to make certain there was no one standing behind her. The feel of warm air—like someone breathing too near the base of her neck. It persisted even when she tried to rub it away.
But she continued to follow the smell of coffee and the trail of cars that led her toward the service, which was already underway in the central part of the cemetery.
Far off, she could hear a man’s voice, speaking in the resonant tone of a minister or a priest—someone reading passages and trying to give comfort to those who were grieving. Violet hadn’t been to many funerals, but she imagined they were all sort of alike in that regard.
She stood back, keeping her distance as she spied on the funeral from behind both a tree that blocked her from view, and the medley of colors that clouded her eyesight.
There were three coffins, one much smaller than the other two, and Violet wondered if it was strange that they were holding the service without the daughter being present . . . without even knowing where she was, or whether she should be joining her family in the ground toda
y. She supposed they had to have the funeral eventually, and that those left behind deserved their closure too.
There were flowers everywhere, making it look more like a garden show than a funeral. And behind the caskets, there was an easel with a blown-up family photograph propped up on it—one that included the girl.
They were a lovely family, Violet couldn’t help thinking, as she gripped the rough tree bark, trying hard not to look too long at the little boy with freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose.
She turned instead to the people in attendance. There were so many of them, far too many to simply be family members. But Violet’s attention was drawn by a couple sitting in the front row, closest to the three caskets. They were older, much older than the couple being buried, and she watched as they leaned into each other. Or rather, as she leaned into him. She blubbered mournfully against his shoulder, while he did his best to maintain a stoic expression. His lips were pressed so tightly they were nearly bloodless.
Parents, Violet thought, guessing at their relation to either the man or woman in the caskets.
Beside them, two women squeezed hands, each pressing tissues to their mouths. One cried soundlessly as the other sniffled and choked loudly on her sobs. From their resemblance, Violet thought the two might be sisters.
When the man speaking, the minister or preacher or priest or whoever he was, finished, he asked if anyone wanted to share stories of the family. He said their names, and even from where she stood, Violet could hear them: Brian, Dawn, and Tyler.
Tyler. The little boy with the freckles was Tyler.
Her chest constricted as she thought of all the things Tyler would never get to experience, of all the things he’d miss out on: kissing a girl, driving a car, getting married, watching his children grow old.
She wondered if his sister missed him. If she’d be crying too if she were here.
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