“I hate to be the one to point this out, but that is the way you ordered them, Chels.” Jules raised her eyebrows as she lifted a hefty bite of pancakes to her full, naturally rosy lips. “What did you think ‘sunny-side up’ was, anyway?”
“I didn’t think it meant ‘half-cooked.’ They need to put a warning label on the menu or something.” She lifted her hand and waved frantically, trying to get the waitress’s attention. Over her shoulder, she declared, “I don’t care what you guys say, I’m sending it back.”
Violet watched Claire’s face fall. “Great,” Claire whined. “I guess that means we can’t come back here again either.”
“You can have my bagel,” Violet offered Chelsea, taking pity on Claire. “I’m sure it’ll be here any minute.”
Chelsea dropped down again, glowering because the waitress had spotted her but was ignoring her, filling coffee for other customers and pretending she hadn’t seen Chelsea’s frantic gestures. “Bitch,” Chelsea muttered. “Wait’ll she sees her comment card.”
Violet bit her lip. “Have you ever actually filled out a comment card, Chels?”
“You don’t know. I might fill one out this time.” Chelsea crossed her arms as she slouched back in the booth, daring one of them to argue with her while she waited for Violet’s bagel to arrive. “By the way, you dodged a bullet last night. The party was totally lame.”
Violet thought about her night, about staying home with Jay, eating pizza and watching movies, and she smiled inwardly. Lame was the last thing her night had been.
“What took you so long? I’ve been here for half an hour. I’d’ve gone in without you, but I have no idea what I’m looking for.” Rafe scowled as Violet joined him outside The Mecca, his arms crossed impatiently.
The cloudless sky overhead gave the impression that the day should’ve been brighter, sunnier, but instead it just felt cold and empty. Like a vast gray wasteland.
Violet felt a twinge of satisfaction. She liked that she knew something he didn’t, especially since, according to Sam, he was the one who had the cool precognition thing going on. “Sorry,” she tried, but she didn’t sound nearly as repentant as she should have. “I ran into some friends.”
He looked at his watch. “Some of us still value other people’s time.”
She rolled her eyes, suddenly feeling like she had an idea why he wasn’t winning any charm contests. “Whatever. Don’t be such a baby. Besides, it’s not like you had anyplace better to be, or you wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to meet me in the first place.”
“Or,” Rafe said as he reached out to get the door for her, holding it so she could go in ahead of him, “I want to catch this sicko.”
Violet faltered. Of course that was it, she chided herself, embarrassed for thinking otherwise. Why else would he be wasting his Saturday with her?
She felt unsettled as she stepped inside the café and surveyed the art wall and the congested tables and chalk menu. That artsy appeal that Violet had felt just a day earlier was lost on her now, tainted with what she thought she knew, what she hoped to confirm by being here today.
“So? This is it, huh?” Rafe asked, but his eyes were on Violet, not on the café.
“Why?” Violet stepped closer to him, her voice dropping. “Do you sense something?”
He shot her an amused look. “Do I sense something? Really? That’s the best you can do? Do you want me to check for evil spirits while I’m at it?” He smirked. “I was only asking because you said this was the place.”
“Whatever. You don’t have to be such a jerk,” Violet told him, her cheeks burning. “I was just thinking that maybe . . . you could,” she stammered. “Maybe you might feel something?”
Rafe tipped his head closer, until it was right next to hers, and suddenly she was far too aware of him. Of his lips and the blazing blue of his eyes. He quirked an eyebrow at her, just one. “I have to actually touch something to feel something. Just FYI.”
“Oh?” Violet said, nodding.
“Yeah. That’s pretty much how it works.”
“Do you want to?” she breathed. “I mean touch something?” Her heart was racing, slamming so violently it felt like a sledgehammer, and she worried it might actually crack a rib.
He inched the tiniest bit closer, his breath mingling with hers. “I do,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper as his daring blue eyes held hers . . . longer than they should have. “But I think we should order a coffee so you can tell me what this is all about. Don’t you?”
Violet wanted to nod, but she was too afraid to. Their lips were far too close. Dangerously close. “Sure.”
She blinked when he pulled back and strode toward the counter, his heavy boots thudding along the floor, and she followed him, feeling bemused. She was relieved that the red-haired girl wasn’t working today.
“What can I get you?” the boy behind the counter asked.
Rafe ordered quickly, just a black coffee, the same way Sam had ordered his. He reached for his black leather wallet, which was strung to the hip of his jeans by a steel chain, and pulled out a twenty. And then the two of them stood there, waiting for Violet to decide as she searched the corkboard for a recommendation.
For one recommendation in particular.
Finally she said, “I’ll have that one.” She pointed to the snapshot of a dark-haired girl with shiny hair and big brown eyes. “A green-tea soy latte.”
The boy didn’t even turn to look at the corkboard, but Violet could see his jaw tense and he blinked hard several times. “That’s Casey’s drink.”
Violet nodded. It was all the confirmation she’d needed.
“How did you know?” Rafe asked as they took a table in the back. He dropped into the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.
Violet’s drink was too hot, and she took a small, careful sip before setting it on the table. “I saw her photo . . . well, a really grainy photo in yesterday’s paper after I was here. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t be sure it was her until I came back to look at the corkboard.” She frowned. “I’m almost sorry it was her. Did you see his face? I hate knowing them. I hate knowing who they were. I mean, are,” she corrected quickly. Casey Atkins wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. “But you know what this means, don’t you?”
“That you were right?”
“No,” she said uncertainly. “Well, yeah, I guess so. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Rafe took a swig of his coffee, hiding his grin behind his cup. “I thought that’s what girls liked to hear . . . that they’re right.”
Violet threw her napkin at him. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? No, it means that Antonia Cornett and Casey Atkins might have known each other. At the very least, they have this place in common.” Suspiciously, she glanced at everyone in the café around them. There was a couple, their heads bent together over the table until they were practically touching as they whispered quietly to each other. At another table was a group of girls that reminded Violet of her friends. They were animated and loud and they talked over one another, and then laughed even louder at their own jokes. “He might have found both of them here.”
Violet half-expected Rafe to make fun of her, to tease her about going all Nancy Drew on him, but when she looked back at him, she saw that he was thinking the same thing she was, his gaze appraising everyone.
“We have to tell Sara,” Violet whispered.
Rafe gave a sharp, determined nod, and then he downed the rest of his coffee and slammed his cup on the table. “You’re right. She needs to know this. It could be something. I’ll tell her when I get back to the Center.” He stood quickly.
Violet jumped up too. “No way, I’m coming with you,” she insisted, reaching out to stop him. She was the one who’d figured it out; she didn’t want to be left out.
She’d gotten used to the quick burst of static that erupted between them whenever they touched, but this time, when her fingers clasped around his wrist, the sensa
tion jolted her, both physically and emotionally. She felt the ground shift, not literally, but the effect was just as unsteadying. She jerked her hand back, squeezing her fist into a tight ball.
Rafe must have felt it too, because his eyes flashed, finding hers and holding them with dark warning.
Neither of them spoke; they just watched each other warily for several long moments.
Finally a slow grin spread over his face. “Well, that was awkward.”
Violet flexed her fingers, still awed by the strange sensation rippling through her. “Do you mind explaining what the hell that is?” she asked. “You feel it too . . . don’t you?” Her thoughtful green eyes lifted to his.
“Yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. “I felt it. And you should really keep your hands to yourself, V. That shit freaks a guy out.” But his voice had dropped and his tone had grown serious. His gaze clouded over.
“What? You think it was me? You think I did that?” Violet scrutinized him. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”
And then she watched as his defenses dropped back into place, the wall that insulated him from everything. From everyone. His expression smoothed and his voice turned cool, emotionless. “Yeah, V, you’re not the first girl I’ve ever touched.” He turned away from her and marched toward the door. “Come on, we have a job to do. Why don’t we concentrate on that?”
Violet glared at his back, and the word jerk rose to the surface, but she managed to swallow it. He was right; they’d come here for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with either of them. “Fine,” she managed. “I’m right behind you.”
Standing beneath the red awning, Violet watched Rafe for longer than she should have. She doubted she’d ever understand him; he confused her like no one she’d ever met before. And, for some godforsaken reason, he also intrigued her. She wanted to know why he kept everyone at such a distance. And why Sam had said that she was different, because right now, she was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. She sort of thought what everyone else did, that Rafe was an ass.
She turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot where her car was parked. It was then that she noticed it, that same strange sensation she’d felt the day before. That same stinging sensation that prickled more than just the hairs of her nose.
That found its way all the way down inside of her.
Stronger today, even, than it had been before. Stronger and more enticing.
And she thought she knew why.
Because today the sleeping pills were finally wearing off. Today her head was clearer, her senses were more alert. Her ability was unhindered.
And this sensation was an echo of some sort.
She glanced around, searching for some hint as to where it might be coming from . . . who it might be coming from. But no one person looked any different from anyone else. No one seemed unusually interested in her. Everyone kept moving, shifting and pushing along the sidewalks.
From somewhere behind her, Violet recognized the noisy rumble of Rafe’s motorcycle revving, and then she heard the steady drone of his engine as he pulled into traffic. She had the vague realization that he was leaving without her, that he was going to beat her to the Center, but she stayed where she was, rooted to her spot as foot traffic continued around her.
Just when she thought it might be getting closer—the irritating sensation growing more intense—Violet heard the cutting blare of a horn coming from down the street. Coming from the direction Rafe had been headed. The sound was too long and was followed immediately by a distinctly abrasive metallic scraping that sent icy prickles racing up Violet’s spine.
She went completely and utterly rigid. And then she was running, her feet pounding viciously against the pavement beneath her. She shoved her way through the crowds that were already starting to form, already trying to bear witness to someone else’s tragedy.
Around her, Violet heard sharp gasps and the frantic rise of murmurs melding together into a buzzing cacophony. All the while, she fervently prayed that it wasn’t what she thought it was. That it wasn’t who she thought it was.
But when she burst through the crowd, she saw it: Rafe’s motorcycle lay completely still at the center of the intersection. A green sedan that had been coming from the opposite direction was also sitting in the intersection, stopped almost directly on top of the bike. Violet watched as its driver emerged dazedly from her vehicle, blinking furiously as she reached up and gingerly touched her face. Angry red abrasions tore across the skin of her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose. Inside the woman’s car, her air bag had deployed.
Violet scanned the asphalt—the chaos of the scene—searching for any sign of Rafe. When she didn’t see him right away, she felt a moment of relief, a lightening in the center of her chest as she figured he must have been okay after all. Maybe he’d walked away, he’d somehow come away from the crash completely unscathed, and was standing somewhere in the throng of people . . . that derisive smirk on his face.
It wasn’t until she spotted the cluster of people congregating on the other side of the woman’s sedan, when she recognized the all too familiar toe of Rafe’s scuffed black boot, that she realized just how far he’d been thrown during impact. Panic nearly choked her as she began shoving people out of her way, clawing past strangers who stood blocking her path. She ignored the sharp looks and indignant mutters as she hurtled forward, desperate to reach him.
She slowed when she got close, numbly finding her way to the center of the crowd now. Her hands shook at her sides, and when she saw him sprawled in front of her, lifeless, she fell to her knees. Above her, she could hear at least two people talking into their cell phones, reporting the incident and relaying the events of Rafe’s accident—and his injuries—to the authorities.
She tried not to listen as words like unresponsive and labored breathing infiltrated her consciousness. She dazedly watched as a woman expertly lifted his slack arm and pressed her fingers to his wrist. After a moment, the woman glanced up at a man on his cell phone and said the words thready pulse.
“Rafe.” Violet was now shaking all over, but she ignored the others, her voice tearing out of her in strident shreds. “Rafe, can you hear me?” She wanted to reach for him, to wrap him in her arms and rock him, to promise him that everything would be all right. But seeing him there, his arms and legs splayed limply around him, his eyes unblinking—he looked too damaged to touch. So instead, she ran her fingertip along the brim of his helmet, grateful he’d been wearing it. “Rafe,” she uttered on a tortured sob.
A hand gripped her shoulder. “Young lady.” The man on the cell phone stared down at her, the handset of his phone gripped firmly against his jaw. “Do you know him? Do you know who he is?” he repeated.
Violet nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from the boy lying in front of her.
“What’s his name?” the man asked again, his fingers digging in harder this time.
“It’s Rafe,” Violet answered absently, a tear slipping down her cheek and falling onto Rafe’s leather jacket as she bent over him, silently begging him to wake up, to open his eyes and tell her he was okay. “His name is Rafe.”
“And his last name?”
Violet blinked, frowning as she willed herself to concentrate, willed herself to remember. What was his last name? Had she ever even heard it before? Finally, she tore her eyes away from Rafe’s limp form and stared up at the man as she wiped her chin with her sleeve. “I don’t know,” she confessed hollowly.
Chapter 13
THE EMERGENCY ROOM WAS CHAOTIC, EVEN ON a Saturday afternoon, practically combusting with echoes. Violet huddled farther into her chair, trying her best to block out the rush of sensory inputs that were both real—those that everyone around her could sense, moans and the sounds of crying babies, howls of both laughter and of pain—and those that only she could distinguish.
She hugged herself tighter, wishing once more that someone would just come out and tell he
r how Rafe was. It had been hours already, and she just wanted to know he was going to be okay.
She glanced at the clock on the wall above the admissions desk only to realize that barely five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked it. She hated being here alone.
The whoosh of the automatic doors drew her notice, as they had every time they opened to let someone in or out, but this time she jolted to her feet when she saw who stepped inside. She left the isolation of her seat in the corner to meet Sara halfway.
“I’ve left you a dozen messages.” Violet fumbled over her words. “It’s Rafe. We were at The Mecca . . . it’s the café where the girl worked . . . Casey Atkins . . . and when we were leaving . . .” Violet hesitated, not quite sure how to continue or how much information to give. “I didn’t see it happen,” she finally said, her vision blurring as she glanced at Sara. Sara’s own eyes were ringed with dark shadows and her hair was rumpled as if she’d just awakened, even though it was well past noon.
“The woman thought she had the right of way . . . she came right at him . . .” Violet explained, reaching for Sara’s hand, not sure what she expected from her.
She was surprised when Sara’s cold fingers clutched hers in a viselike grip. “Where is he now? Have you talked to anyone? How’s he doing?” Sara assaulted Violet with her trademark no-nonsense, rapid-fire questions.
“Last I heard, they were taking him up for an MRI. But they won’t tell me anything else. They’ll only talk to his family.”
Sara released Violet’s hand. She opened her small handbag and began scouring through it, searching for something. Violet realized she’d never seen Sara in anything other than her work clothes before—suits, skirts, heels, starched shirts. She took a moment to examine this casual, off-hours Sara who wore black yoga pants and a gray pullover sweatshirt that was easily two sizes too big for her. Sara found her wallet and pulled it from her purse as she strode toward the admissions desk, to the same stern-faced woman who’d denied Violet access just minutes earlier.
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