Desires of the Dead

by Kimberly Derting

  She’d lost Jay. And more than just losing the one person she’d fallen so wholly in love with, the person she’d given herself to completely, she’d also just lost her very best friend in the entire world.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, balanced at the edge of sleep and wake. It was a tenuous place for Violet to be, with her subconscious permitted to contribute to the images that gathered there.

  At one point, Violet put her iPod on, to block out her thoughts, to block out everything, but nothing could stop the corrupted dreams that lingered whenever she dozed, or the torment that attacked when she woke.

  So she tossed and turned, trying not to think and not to feel.

  It was almost dark when she felt the side of her bed sink, and she opened her eyes. Chelsea gazed down at her.

  “What are you doing here?” Violet asked, scooting up on her pillow. Her throat burned.

  Chelsea shrugged. “I was worried about you.” Her face scrunched up. “You okay?”

  She wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even close.

  Violet wanted to tell her friend that she was fine, that she was sick and that was why she hadn’t been at school, but she just shook her head. Her voice was hoarse. “We broke up. Jay and me, we broke up.”

  “Aww crap, Vi.” Chelsea took Violet’s hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be all right. I’m sure it’s just a fight. It’s you and Jay. Everything’ll be fine, I know it will. Do you want me to talk to him?”

  Violet shook her head again. “Please don’t, Chels.”

  Chelsea looked pained, worried, confused—too many emotions that were unfamiliar to her—all at once. Finally she sighed. “Scoot over.”

  Violet didn’t argue. Instead she made room for her friend.

  Chelsea climbed in beside Violet. She lay on her back so they were both staring up at the ceiling. “Well, if he’s stupid enough to let you go, then he doesn’t deserve you,” Chelsea clucked, reassuring Violet in her own way, nudging her beneath the covers. “Besides, you’ll always have me, and I’m way more fun than Jay could ever be.”

  Violet managed a watery laugh through her tears. She didn’t know how to tell Chelsea how grateful she was that she’d come by tonight without sounding corny, like some cheesy greeting card. But she couldn’t imagine anything better than having her friend beside her, whispering encouragement as darkness fell.

  Violet knew that her mom had come in to check on her after Chelsea had gone, because she’d felt her mother’s cool hand brushing over her cheek and lying against her forehead.

  She doubted that her mom really thought she was sick, but she never said a word. She just slipped in silently to make sure that Violet was all right and slipped out again. For that, at least, Violet was thankful.

  During that endless night Violet came to a conclusion: She was damaged, sure, but she was stronger than that. She wasn’t broken. She would survive this. She had to. And she didn’t want Jay to know how badly he’d hurt her.

  She wanted him, but she didn’t need him.

  She closed her eyes, feeling no real peace. The best she could hope for at this point was for a little of the numbness to find her at last, and to dull the ache in her heart.

  But sleep was all she actually got.

  Violet stayed home from school again the next morning, not because she was exhausted, although she was. Or heartbroken, which she also was. Instead she stayed home because it was her birthday.

  Happy freaking seventeenth to her!

  She wandered out of her room, relieved that the house was empty at the moment. And even though she wasn’t hungry, she poured herself a bowl of cereal. It wouldn’t do any good to starve herself.

  The note on the counter said that her mom had gone out to run some errands, which Violet interpreted as shopping for the nonparty birthday dinner that she had planned for Violet. Just thinking about it, about spending an entire evening with her family—her parents and her aunt and uncle—celebrating her birthday, made her stomach twist into painful knots. The fact that Jay wouldn’t be there made it almost unbearable.

  She was carrying her half-eaten bowl of cereal to the sink when she glanced at the clock. It was still only nine fifteen. Suddenly spending an entire day cooped up in the house again sounded worse than being at school. Violet needed to get out, and there was only one person she could think to call.

  She hurried, hoping to be out of there before her mom came home. She threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and pulled her hair back in a ponytail that looked nothing like the ones she’d seen on the pristine Sara Priest. Violet’s hair was wild and unruly, even on a good day.

  She did a last-minute mirror check to assess the damage. It wasn’t so bad. At least not once she got past the dark circles and the sallow skin. And that vacant look behind her still swollen eyes.

  She decided it was probably better not to look in the mirror for too long.

  She scribbled a quick note, letting her parents know she’d be back in time for dinner, and she rushed out the door, feeling better the moment her car’s engine sputtered to life.

  That was when she pulled out her cell phone to arrange a meeting she wouldn’t have predicted in a million years. With the last person she’d ever expected to call.

  Rafe was already inside, looking at ease for the first time since Violet had met him. She spotted him before he noticed her, and she watched him through the glass, with his inky black hair falling in front of his face. He leaned back in the wobbly-looking bistro chair, his arms folded across his chest, his chin down. He was someone who was accustomed to going unnoticed. He seemed to prefer it that way.

  She’d recognized it the moment she’d met him. It was that indefinable quality she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was . . . different. It was as if he didn’t belong. As if he was a boy who couldn’t quite find his place in the world.

  Like her.

  The thought made her instantly uncomfortable. She didn’t like the possibility that she didn’t belong, even though she’d considered that very thing more times than she could count.

  He had picked the meeting place, a coffee shop in the city. A dark little café tucked within the crowded streets and redbrick buildings of Pioneer Square, an area of Seattle rich with art galleries, restaurants, and antique stores. It was also a popular gathering area for the local homeless.

  Violet stepped through the doorway, the raw wooden planks thumping hollowly beneath her feet. The smell of coffee was dark and rich.

  Rafe glanced up and saw her there. When he didn’t smile, didn’t respond at all, Violet was surprised by her disappointment. She wondered what she’d expected.

  And she worried that she’d made a mistake, calling Rafe.

  “Hi,” she said, suddenly nervous as she pulled out the chair across from him.

  He lifted his chin in a brief nod and continued to watch her guardedly. He’d ordered before she’d arrived, and steam rose from the coffee sitting between them.

  “Thanks for meeting me. I know I didn’t give you much notice.”

  He shrugged as he cleared his throat. As always, his voice was hushed. “I was sorta surprised you called.”

  Violet felt exactly the same way. “You’re the one who gave me your number.” She challenged him with a look, but she wasn’t sure what else to say. Now that she was sitting here, she felt so . . . awkward. “I was just hoping we could talk . . . maybe you could, I don’t know, answer some questions for me.”

  He looked down, as if he were having trouble holding her gaze. “You’re right, I did give you my number. It’s just . . . I’m not really good at talking. Sara’s much better at it.” His eyes shifted up then, finding hers, and she was struck again by how intense they were. “I’m not really sure I’m the one you should have called.”

  Violet shook her head but couldn’t find the words to argue. She could practically see the walls he had up, the defenses he had no intention of letting down.

  “If you want, I can call Sara and set something up
between you two, but I just don’t think I can do”—he pointed from her to him, shrugging, his face apologetic—“this.”

  Violet didn’t answer; she suddenly felt like a jackass for thinking that she might be able to talk to Rafe in the first place. What have I been smoking? she chastised herself. Her eyes burned, stinging, and she blinked hard. She couldn’t believe she’d been foolish enough to think they might have some sort of connection. But after everything she’d been through, the tears were still too close to the surface, and she was afraid that if she started crying now, in front of him, she might actually die from humiliation.

  She shoved away from the table, nearly toppling her chair in her haste to leave.

  But Rafe reached for her, grabbing her wrist and stopping her before she could turn away.

  Violet flinched at his touch, as electricity sparked between them, shooting all the way up her arm. She jerked her hand back, clutching it tightly to her pounding heart.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking just as confused by the strange current as she was. He flexed and unflexed his fist, and Violet could see that his fingernails had been filled in with Sharpie. His eyes lifted to hers. “Look, Violet, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Please . . . don’t go. Not yet.”

  She hesitated, trying to decide, but she couldn’t ignore the sincerity she heard in his voice. Finally she pulled her chair back to the table and sat down. But now she was the one with the mistrustful look in her eyes.

  He smiled then; it was a sly, wicked sort of smile. It suited him. “I told you I was bad at this.”

  Violet winced, not yet ready to let him off the hook. “That’s kind of an understatement.”

  “Can we try this again? What did you want to talk about?”

  Violet exhaled noisily as she propped her elbows on the table and tried to explain. “I don’t know why I called you, really. I just . . . I didn’t want to be alone anymore. And that doesn’t mean I think we have to be friends or anything.” She made a face at him. “It’s just that you’re the only one who knows about Sara Priest. And that I found that little boy. At least, the only person I can talk to.” She thought about Jay, about how she should have been able to tell him.

  So why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she told him about her meeting at the FBI?

  It didn’t really matter now; Jay wouldn’t be around anymore.

  “I guess I just don’t know what to do, and you seem to have some of the answers.”

  Rafe’s eyebrows rose teasingly. “You think I have the answers?”

  Violet shrugged. “Well, you and Sara.”

  “And you don’t want to talk to her.” It wasn’t a question this time. Rafe leaned back as he crossed his feet lazily at the ankles, but he wasn’t fooling Violet; she knew she had his attention.

  She also knew she’d have to tread carefully; Rafe didn’t seem like the sharing type.

  But they did have something in common, whether either of them was willing to admit it or not. Sara Priest was proof of that. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to talk about you, and I don’t want to talk about me. So where does that leave us exactly?” She cocked her head to the side.

  Rafe lifted his shoulder. “Right back where we started, I guess.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap,” Violet insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know way more than you’re letting on. Like, why is Sara so interested in me? What is it that she thinks she knows?”

  Rafe leaned forward, no longer feigning indifference. “You tell me, Violet. Obviously there’s . . . something. Otherwise neither of us would be here in the first place. You’d be safe at home in your cozy little farm town and I’d still be in bed.” His face was expressionless, but Violet saw the taunting gleam in his indigo eyes. “If you want to swap secrets, then you go first.”

  Violet squeezed her lips together, worrying and biting them until she tasted her own blood. She considered what he was telling her, and recognized the corner she’d let him back her into. He had her. Of course, he knew that. Violet wasn’t going to reveal what she could do . . . to tell him of her talent for seeking out bodies. And he damn sure wasn’t about to confide in her.

  She exhaled, releasing the breath she’d been holding as she’d waited for him to disclose something . . . anything. “So do you work for her? Is that the deal with you two?”

  Rafe laughed. It was the first time Violet had ever heard him laugh. The sound was quiet and low, just like his voice. “I work with her. Big difference.” He reached in his pocket and handed her another business card, just like the others. “If you have any other questions about Sara, I think you need to call her.”

  Violet glared at him, but she knew enough to realize that they’d reached an impasse.

  Rafe reached forward then and pushed the coffee across the table. “I got this for you. Double-shot vanilla latte. But it’s probably getting cold by now.”

  Violet wrinkled her brow. “How’d you know what to order?” She picked up the cup. It was still warm.

  He shrugged. “Just a hunch. Most girls like vanilla.”

  Violet looked at him dubiously. That was pretty much the faultiest logic she’d ever heard. Most girls liked a lot of different things: chocolate, caramel, nonfat milk, whole milk, whipped cream, iced coffees . . . the options were endless. How could he possibly have pegged her for a vanilla-latte kind of girl?

  Lucky guess, she supposed as she took a sip. She got up to leave, recognizing that their conversation was over.

  But Rafe reached out to stop her, careful this time to touch her jacket instead of her skin. “Oh, and Violet?” This time he was smiling, kind of. “Happy birthday.”

  Chapter 21

  When Violet walked through the front door, the house was filled with the smells of food. Real food, the kind that didn’t have anything to do with the freezer section of the grocery store. That could mean only one thing . . . that someone other than her mom had prepared her birthday dinner.

  Violet didn’t care about the who; it was the what that had her mouth watering as she closed the door behind her.

  The delicate scent of rosemary mingled with the heady aroma of garlic and lemons. She knew immediately that her dad had been cooking, because it was Violet’s favorite—at least of the homemade variety—lemon chicken.

  Suddenly she was famished. And even the deterrent of an evening with her family—or anyone, for that matter—wasn’t enough to keep her appetite at bay.

  She could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and she knew that she was already late for her own party. Thankfully she was able to slip quietly upstairs to change and freshen up. She felt like crap after driving all the way to the city and back, trying to get information from Rafe. And she knew she probably looked it too. She pinched her cheeks, to give the illusion that there was still blood pumping somewhere within her body, and quickly brushed her teeth.

  When she decided it was the best she could do on short notice, she headed back downstairs, where her mom was waiting at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Happy birthday, Vi!” She grabbed Violet, wrapping her arms around her.

  “Mom, have you been drinking?” she scolded, only half-joking as she struggled to break free. She could hear the others in the kitchen, chairs scraping and voices coming out to greet her.

  “No,” her mom scoffed, as if the suggestion was absurd. “I’m just—” She started to say something, but then changed her mind.

  Worried, Violet thought, finishing the sentence in her head. And she wondered what her parents must have thought over the past couple of days, with Violet skipping school and hiding in her bedroom, barely eating, and then disappearing this morning.

  She didn’t ask though, mostly because she didn’t want to know the answers.

  “Happy birthday,” her dad interrupted the awkward hush. He embraced her too but more gently, thoughtfully.

  Violet smiled at him.

  Her aunt and uncle were there too, along with her two little cousins, Joshua and
Cassidy. Cassidy reached her arms up for Violet, and Violet lifted the little blonde-haired girl, commenting about how heavy she’d gotten, even though she was as light as a feather.

  “So what are you now,” Violet teased the little girl wiggling in her arms, “like twelve, thirteen years old?”

  “No!” Cassidy giggled, but that was all the answer she gave.

  Joshua, who was just barely five years old himself, was already serious like Violet’s dad, a little accountant in the making. She had to force herself not to notice the similarities between him and the picture of the little boy from the waterfront. “She’s not even three yet. Her birthday is April sixth,” he stated precisely.

  “Hmm,” Violet responded skeptically, looking at him like she didn’t quite believe it. “I would’ve guessed older than that.”

  Joshua shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him. And then he asked, “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick or something?”

  “Joshy! That’s rude!” Her aunt Kat glanced apologetically at Violet. “Say you’re sorry right now.”

  Violet set Cassidy down. The little girl grabbed hold of Violet’s leg and held on tight.

  “It’s okay,” Violet told her aunt. And then to Joshua, she shrugged lazily. “I’m something, all right. I just don’t know what.”

  The awkward hush was back. And Violet was aware that they all knew, or at least had their suspicions, about what was wrong with her. Probably that she and Jay were fighting, maybe even broken up.

  She was glad when her dad linked his arm through hers and drew her toward the kitchen. “Come on. There’s enough food for an army. Let’s eat.”

  Violet didn’t have to be asked twice. Food, at least, was something she could agree on. And he was right: There was more than enough.

  Violet found a spot at the table and pretended to be interested in the conversations going on around her. She didn’t want anyone to ask her what was wrong. She didn’t want to answer questions that were too tough even to consider.

  Her dad finished fixing dinner, and the chicken was served with garlic mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad. Thankfully the conversation steered away from anything to do with Violet—at least where Jay was concerned—and there were very few lapses. And even though it was Violet’s birthday, Violet was hardly required to participate.