Desires of the Dead

by Kimberly Derting

  And then she walked out of the kitchen, leaving Violet with more questions than before. Somehow she’d expected her mother to confirm what she’d always believed: that it was a secret. And that it should remain that way.

  Instead her head reeled with new possibilities. About telling someone new. About helping the FBI. About purposefully tracking down killers.

  It was a lot for one girl to consider. And for now, at least, it was a task she was too physically and emotionally depleted to worry about.

  She turned out the lights as she made her way up to her room.

  As tired as she was, Violet didn’t go to sleep right away. Instead she lay on her bed, stretched out on her stomach, looking at the files Sara had asked Rafe to give her.

  She knew what Sara expected, of course, what she thought Violet could do with a stack of photographs and police reports. She thought Violet was some kind of psychic. Sara thought Violet would be able to solve mysteries simply by running her hands over the evidence they’d gathered.

  If only it were that simple.

  Violet reached for one of the two files, the one from the little boy’s case. She glanced inside at a photograph of his face. She ran her fingertip over the picture, tracing the line of his sweet little mouth, wondering how someone could harm a child. Violet felt a dark stab of sorrow deep in her chest. He was so young, so innocent.

  She closed the folder and opened the other one instead.

  Inside was a photo of a woman. According to the file, her name was Serena Russo—Mike’s mom. The picture wasn’t current; even two years ago it would have been dated, as if it were pulled from a frame that had been hanging in the family home. It was faded, and the clothing was long out of style, but in it she was smiling. She’d been happy when the picture was taken.

  There were two other photos in the folder, both from crimes older than Serena Russo’s disappearance. Both taken after her first husband had abused her. In them, her face was bruised, her eyes swollen, her lips bloodied.

  Violet turned over the pictures of the injured woman, unable to look for too long.

  Goose bumps raked her skin as she glanced at the mug shot of the man responsible. She looked at his name: Roger Hartman. She glanced casually at his address and was startled to see that it was only an hour away from where she lived.

  Violet could understand why Sara believed that this man might be responsible for the woman’s disappearance, and she wondered what it was that Sara really suspected. Did she think that Mike’s mother was dead? That she’d been murdered by her abusive ex-husband?

  It seemed unfair that he should be allowed to go on as if nothing had changed, when the Russo family had been torn apart.

  Suddenly, Violet was sorry that she couldn’t help, sorry she wasn’t able to do something to ease the emptiness that Mike and his sister must feel in the wake of their mother’s absence. To lighten the burden that their father must bear without his wife.

  The not knowing, as Sara had described it.

  She closed the file and shoved them both into her backpack.

  Violet wished she could help, wished she could do something to give Mike’s family a little closure of their own.

  Gluttony

  She hated the clinking sound of a bottle. It was never a good sound, especially in the dead of night.

  It was the sound of her father.

  Alone, in the darkness of her bedroom, she wanted to scream. She felt as if she would choke on the voice she held inside as her throat ached to set it free.

  She listened as his heavy work boots shuffled across the floorboards of the living room, wondering for the millionth time why it had been her mother who’d left instead of him. Why couldn’t he have been the one to abandon his family?

  Almost worse than the sound of the bottle, though, was the dread that swelled within her during those moments before he came home from work each night, as she waited to see which man he’d be, which father would walk through the door at the end of the day. Because she was convinced now that they were not one and the same, her old father and this new man who filled a place in their house. Her real father had gone—along with her mother—leaving her with this new man, who only in appearance resembled the father he once was.

  She’d come to learn that some monsters weren’t make-believe.

  Yet there was always that fleeting instant, no matter how hard she resisted it, in which she hoped that it wouldn’t be him. That, instead, her real dad would walk through the door. That he’d come home at last.

  But he never did.

  Her real dad was gone. And in his place he’d left someone withdrawn and bitter. And very seldom sober.

  She was lonely in ways that no one could ever understand.

  She strained to hear, clutching the covers close as she curled into a ball and waited for the sounds in the other room to settle once more. She heard the crack of another bottle top. Soon enough, he’d be sleeping.

  With relief came hatred.

  She hated her father, the man he’d become.

  She hated the woman who’d given her life and then left her behind, abandoning her children when they needed her most.

  There were others she hated as well, others who had what she didn’t, others who held the things she wanted most in this world. But mostly she hated herself for not being strong enough to save herself. Not yet.

  But someday she would be. She wouldn’t be here forever; the conviction of those silent thoughts fortified her.

  Eventually she would find a way out.

  Chapter 15

  Violet wasn’t sure what she was doing out here; she only knew that she didn’t want to be at home, alone with her thoughts.

  She’d been driving around town for over an hour, trying to be swallowed by the night, to get lost in it. It was her favorite time to drive, when the streets were all but forsaken.

  The rain splashed against her windshield, blurring the lights outside into reflective pools, adding to her sense of seclusion.

  It was good thinking time.

  She brought her car to a complete stop at the flashing red light of a four-way intersection, even though there were no other cars waiting. It seemed like even when no one was looking, she was always following the rules, always trying to do the right thing.

  She wished she knew what the right thing was for her now, what she should do about Sara’s proposal to use her gift to help others. Violet wasn’t even sure whether it was an official offer, or just a fishing expedition by an inquisitive observer. The fact that Sara had given her files to look through meant that she was probably serious.

  But there were other opinions to consider; she’d heard the agents in the parking garage:

  Bullshit, one man had declared.

  A waste of time, stated another.

  These were men with badges, experienced investigators. And they certainly didn’t think that the FBI needed Violet’s particular brand of assistance.

  Maybe they were right.

  Violet didn’t know. She’d spent so much time hiding what she could do that the idea of exposing it to anyone, other than Jay or her family, went against everything she’d ever believed in.

  It was a secret . . . her secret. How could she be expected to share that?

  Except that it didn’t have to be a secret.

  Frustration clouded her judgment. She realized that she was still sitting at the flashing stoplight, waiting for something to happen.

  But there would be no signs, no easy answers.

  She didn’t want to keep driving aimlessly; she needed to go somewhere . . . even if that somewhere was just home.

  She sighed, making her first real decision in days.

  Her car grumbled in its usual way, reassuring her that it was still alive as she did an illegal three-point turn in the middle of the deserted stretch of road. She kind of liked doing something that she wasn’t supposed to, even if it was only a traffic violation. It made her feel like she was breaking the rules for no good reason
at all.

  She turned down Jay’s driveway, killing the lights as she did. She didn’t need them; she could have navigated her way with both eyes closed.

  Not for the first time tonight, she wondered what she was doing. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to come here, but she knew one thing:

  She needed to see Jay.

  She cut the engine and stepped out into the rain, sneaking around to the side of his house. She tapped lightly on his bedroom window and waited. After a few long seconds, just as she was about to knock again, his curtains parted.

  When he saw her, he smiled.

  Immediately, everything felt better. Her tattered edges were soothed. She’d done the right thing, coming here.

  Jay opened his window. “Go to the door. I’ll let you in.” His voice was quiet and still slow with sleep.

  “No,” she whispered back. “You come out here.”

  He didn’t argue. “Let me get some pants on. I’ll be right there.”

  Violet watched as the curtains fell back into place. The light never came on inside, but within seconds he was climbing out his window. He grinned at her when his feet hit solid ground.

  “What are you doing here?” He wrapped his arms around her as if he could, somehow, shield her from the rain falling down upon them. He didn’t complain about the weather.

  She pulled loose, just enough so she could gaze up at him. Seeing him made other things seem less . . . important. Less troubling.

  “Do you want to go somewhere?”

  Violet shook her head. “Can we just talk?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged casually, but Violet could read the concern in his expression.

  He followed her to her car, and they got inside.

  Violet didn’t start the engine; she preferred the quiet. The soft sound of the rain hitting the car created a restful sound track to her mood. Jay reached over and wiped raindrops from her cheek, brushing the saturated tendrils of hair away from her face. Violet grabbed for his hand and held on as she waited for the right words to come.

  Jay didn’t rush her.

  She owed him so many explanations that it seemed silly to worry over childish insecurities. Her voice was soft. “What did you think when I first told you about the animals I found?”

  He seemed confused. It obviously wasn’t what he’d expected. “Violet, I was seven years old. I thought it was badass. I think I was probably even jealous.”

  She made a face at him. “Didn’t you think it was creepy? Or that I was weird?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed enthusiastically. “That’s why I was so jealous. I wanted to be the one finding dead bodies. You were like an animal detective or something. You were only weird ’cause you were a girl.” He grinned. “But I learned to overlook that since you always took me on such cool adventures.”

  Violet released a breath, smiling. She knew he was telling the truth, which only made it funnier to hear him saying the words out loud. Of course, what little boy didn’t want to go scavenging through the woods and digging in the dirt?

  She tried again. “Did you ever tell anyone? Does your mom know?”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and rubbed her knuckles across his lower lip, his gaze locked with hers. “No,” he promised. “I swore I wouldn’t, not even her. I think she knows something, or at least she thinks you have the worst luck ever, since you found all those dead girls.” He lowered his voice. “She was really worried about you after the shooting last year. You’re like a daughter to her.” He leaned close. “Of course, that makes it kind of creepy when I do things like this.”

  He kissed her. It was intimate. Not soft or sweet this time, it was deep and passionate, stealing Violet’s breath. She laid her hand against his chest, savoring the feel of his heartbeat beneath her palm, and then traced her fingertips up to his neck, into his hair.

  He pulled her over the console that separated them, dragging her onto his lap. He ran his hands up her back restlessly, drawing her as close as he could.

  It was nearly impossible for her to pull herself away. “Wait,” she insisted breathlessly. “Please, wait.” She had her hands braced against his shoulders, struggling more against herself than him.

  His glazed eyes teased her. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to say no. I’m the girl, right?”

  She sighed heavily, leaning her head against his shoulder and trying to recapture her runaway thoughts. She still wanted to talk. She wanted the other things too, but she needed to sort through her thoughts first.

  “Sorry, it’s just . . . I have a lot of . . .” She shrugged against him. His damp T-shirt was warm and practically paper-thin, tempting her to touch him. She ran her finger down the length of his stomach. She knew it wasn’t fair to tease him, but she couldn’t help herself. He was too enticing. “. . . I have some stuff I need to work through.” It was the best she could do for an explanation.

  He caught her hand before she’d reached his waistline, and he held it tightly in his grip. “I’m trying to be patient, Violet, I really am. If there’s something you want to tell me . . . Well, I just wish you’d trust me.”

  “I’ll get there,” she explained. “I’ll figure it all out. I’m just a little confused right now.”

  He let out a shaky breath and then he kissed the top of her head, still not releasing her hand. “So, when you do, we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  She nodded against him. She thought she would keep talking; she still had so many doubts about what she should, and shouldn’t, be doing.

  But instead she just stayed there, curled up on his lap, absorbing him, taking relief from his touch . . . and strength from his presence.

  Chapter 16

  “You look like a hot mess,” Chelsea told Violet as she slipped into a space beside her in the hallway. “I heard you missed first period; I thought maybe you were taking a sick day.”

  “Thanks a lot, Chels,” Violet answered irritably. “I overslept and practically had to break every speed limit just to get here in time for second.”

  Chelsea made a face. “Please, you drive like my grandma! You didn’t break any speed limits.”

  Violet couldn’t lie: “No. I didn’t. But I did write my own tardy note.”

  “Only ’cause your mom said you could. Did you say you had explosive diarrhea?”

  “No, just that I slept in.”

  “You should have said diarrhea. Or at least menstrual cramps, then you could get out of PE. It’s like a twofer.”

  Violet laughed even though her head was pounding. “Nice. You’re such a lady.”

  Chelsea nudged her then, drawing her attention to Mike, who was heading right toward them. “Speaking of ladies, check this out. Mike’s growing a mustache.”

  Violet squinted to get a better look. Chelsea was right; there was a dark patch of facial hair springing up just above his upper lip.

  “Why?” Violet asked, trying not to make it too obvious that she was staring.

  “Because I told him I liked them. I wanted to see if I could make him do it.”

  Violet felt an unexpected stab of discomfort as she glanced at Mike. Knowing what she did, knowing what his family had been through . . . she suddenly felt sorry for him. She was relieved he had no idea that she knew about his mother.

  He grinned at Chelsea as he approached, barely noticing that Violet was standing there.

  Calling it a “mustache” was a stretch, by any standards. It was definitely noticeable, but it was spotty at best, and the sprigs of clumpy hair looked oddly out of place on his handsome face. Violet was amazed that in less than a week since their movie-night hookup, Chelsea already had him jumping through these kinds of hoops. She was something else.

  “Hey, baby,” Chelsea said in a voice that bordered on baby talk as Mike bent down to give her a quick kiss. “Miss me?”

  Violet almost rolled her eyes.

  “I thought about you all period,” he answered, his voice husky. “Did you get the note I left in you
r backpack?”

  Violet couldn’t hold back any longer; she rolled her eyes. Neither of them noticed.

  “I did. You’re so sweet.” The cooing verged on sickening. “Did anyone say anything about your mustache?”

  Mike winced, as if he suddenly remembered the patchy hair on his upper lip. “A coupla’ people,” he reluctantly responded, and Violet suspected that he’d taken his fair share of ribbing over it.

  Chelsea ignored the obvious distress in his voice. “Vi and I gotta run or we’ll be late.” She stretched up to kiss him and then rubbed her thumb across the hairs above his lip as if she were petting them. “See you after class.”

  Chelsea tugged at Violet, who was still staring at his unsightly mustache. It was like seeing a car accident . . . hard to look away.

  “So do you? Like it, I mean?” Violet asked as she was being dragged down the hallway.

  “The mustache?” Chelsea grimaced. “God, no. It’s hideous on him.”

  “Then, why?”

  “I told you, to see if he’d actually do it. Don’t worry. I’m gonna make him shave it this weekend.”

  Violet wasn’t sure whether to congratulate her friend on her training abilities or reprimand her for being so cruel. In the end, she didn’t do either, mostly because she knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Chelsea was Chelsea. Trying to convince her that what she’d done was wrong would be like banging your head against a brick wall. It would be painful to you but accomplish nothing.

  Jay sat down across from Chelsea and took both of her hands in his. The oversized lunchroom was buzzing with activity, and he practically had to yell to be heard.

  “Chelsea, for the love of everything good and holy, please . . . please stop ruining my friend.”

  Violet bit her lip to stop from laughing at the two of them. She knew what he was talking about before he even explained. It was the new facial hair.

  Chelsea jerked her hands out of his. “Oh, relax, drama queen. He’s not broken. Besides, I’m gonna fix him this weekend.”

  Jay seemed relieved. “I wish you’d do it sooner. The poor guy’s really taking a ration of crap over that thing.”