Dead Silence
Page 20
And here he was.
Violet practically fell out of her car when she got her first glimpse of Sara, and it was Sara who rushed to Violet, gathering her in her arms as she assured herself that Violet was safe before either of them spoke. Violet had nearly forgotten how cold Sara’s touch could be and she shivered once more. Behind Sara, Violet noticed Rafe glancing at her, scrutinizing her with his curious blue gaze, and she wondered if she looked half as frazzled as she felt.
“What’s happened exactly?” Sara was asking, still holding her, hugging her. “Are you all right?” Steam gusted from Sara’s blue lips as she gripped Violet’s shoulders with fingers that were icy, despite the summer heat, and all thoughts that Sara wasn’t entirely on her side evaporated just like that.
Violet had grown accustomed to seeing Sara’s imprint, the one she’d earned when Violet had been attacked outside the Center—the day Sara had saved her life. But she’d never stop thinking that the imprint was probably the most fascinating one she’d ever seen.
A fine layer of frost coated every part of Sara’s skin, making Sara glisten like an icy sculpture, making her look as if she’d been carved from a glacier. Behind that chilly facade, she studied Violet with eyes that were eerily similar to her brother’s.
“I’m fine.” Violet turned her head and nodded toward the house. “They’re in there, three of them. All dead.”
Sara looked past the gate, at the stately house overlooking the glittering waters of Lake Tapps. Her hands fell away from Violet and Violet wrapped her arms around herself. “How did you—?” Sara started to ask, and then reformed her question. “Did you know them?”
Violet shook her head. “I was just driving by. . . .” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, realizing she hadn’t bothered cleaning up after she’d puked, and wondering if they could see just how affected she’d been. “I felt them.”
“Damn,” Rafe muttered, moving forward now, and Violet took a step back from him. She didn’t want to be comforted, not now. Not by him.
She glanced at him, nodding. “It’s bad,” she breathed.
“Who else did you call?” Sara asked, and Violet knew that what she really meant was had she called her uncle yet?
“No one. Just you.”
Sara reached for her cell phone. “I’ll call it in,” she said, breath gusting as she turned away from them. “You two wait here.”
The police arrived in far less time than Sara and Rafe had, her uncle among them. He greeted her like her uncle, hugging her so tight she felt like she’d get lost in his arms, whispering quiet questions that only she could hear as she nodded assurances against his chest.
Then, he transformed, slipping into his official role as chief of police, and Violet became an unintentional bystander, a witness to a crime. She watched as he interacted with the other officers, always fascinated by this no-nonsense side of him. Rigid, bordering on militant. So different from the carefree uncle she’d grown up with, the uncle who was always teasing and laughing and playing with her.
She expected to be shuffled away shortly after giving her statement, taken home to face her parents, but instead she and Rafe had been left outside to wait for Sara and her uncle. They stood on the fringes of the scene, not really a part of the investigation but not forbidden from it either. Ignored was more like it.
Or forgotten.
She watched in silence as officers moved in and out of the house, unable to stop thinking about what was in there.
But not about the bodies so much, and not about the blood either. Although both were forever seared into her memory, permanently etched into her mind’s eye.
It was something else that bothered her, niggled at her.
Something wrong about what she’d seen.
Something was . . . off.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, replaying the scene in her head once more. She thought of the word staged, and realized it fit the scene. The father had been placed beside the mother who had been placed beside the son. The only thing missing was a family dog.
Violet’s head snapped up as she realized what was bothering her. Not the dog at all, but what was absent from the scene.
“Rafe,” she said urgently, reaching for his sleeve and pulling him from his own quiet reverie. She knew where he’d been, what he’d been thinking about. Rafe had his own skeletons, and dead families played right into his deepest fears. “Where’s Sara? Do you know where she went?”
Rafe looked at her, his eyes still glazed. “No.” He shook his head. “Inside, maybe . . .”
Violet sprinted toward the house, but Rafe caught up to her, grabbing her arm to stop her. “Jesus. What’s up with you?”
“Something’s wrong. I need to go in there.”
“There’s a lot wrong in there, V.” He frowned back at her.
“No. I mean, I know . . . but there’s something I need to see . . . feel . . .” She trailed off, unable to explain what she was thinking. And then she looked past him. “Uncle Stephen!” She waved at her uncle who had just emerged from the front door.
He was rubbing his eyes when he looked up at her, and his expression, that look of worry on his face, deepened. “What are you still doing here, Vi?” he asked, pulling her aside. “I thought you’d left—”
“Uncle Stephen, I need to go back inside,” she insisted, cutting him off.
Violet practically fell out of her car when she got her first glimpse of Sara, and it was Sara who rushed to Violet, gathering her in her arms as she assured herself that Violet was safe before either of them spoke. Violet had nearly forgotten how cold Sara’s touch could be and she shivered once more. Behind Sara, Violet noticed Rafe glancing at her, scrutinizing her with his curious blue gaze, and she wondered if she looked half as frazzled as she felt.
“What’s happened exactly?” Sara was asking, still holding her, hugging her. “Are you all right?” Steam gusted from Sara’s blue lips as she gripped Violet’s shoulders with fingers that were icy, despite the summer heat, and all thoughts that Sara wasn’t entirely on her side evaporated just like that.
Violet had grown accustomed to seeing Sara’s imprint, the one she’d earned when Violet had been attacked outside the Center—the day Sara had saved her life. But she’d never stop thinking that the imprint was probably the most fascinating one she’d ever seen.
A fine layer of frost coated every part of Sara’s skin, making Sara glisten like an icy sculpture, making her look as if she’d been carved from a glacier. Behind that chilly facade, she studied Violet with eyes that were eerily similar to her brother’s.
“I’m fine.” Violet turned her head and nodded toward the house. “They’re in there, three of them. All dead.”
Sara looked past the gate, at the stately house overlooking the glittering waters of Lake Tapps. Her hands fell away from Violet and Violet wrapped her arms around herself. “How did you—?” Sara started to ask, and then reformed her question. “Did you know them?”
Violet shook her head. “I was just driving by. . . .” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, realizing she hadn’t bothered cleaning up after she’d puked, and wondering if they could see just how affected she’d been. “I felt them.”
“Damn,” Rafe muttered, moving forward now, and Violet took a step back from him. She didn’t want to be comforted, not now. Not by him.
She glanced at him, nodding. “It’s bad,” she breathed.
“Who else did you call?” Sara asked, and Violet knew that what she really meant was had she called her uncle yet?
“No one. Just you.”
Sara reached for her cell phone. “I’ll call it in,” she said, breath gusting as she turned away from them. “You two wait here.”
The police arrived in far less time than Sara and Rafe had, her uncle among them. He greeted her like her uncle, hugging her so tight she felt like she’d get lost in his arms, whispering quiet questions that only she could hear as she nodded assurances against his chest.
Then, he transformed, slipping into his official role as chief of police, and Violet became an unintentional bystander, a witness to a crime. She watched as he interacted with the other officers, always fascinated by this no-nonsense side of him. Rigid, bordering on militant. So different from the carefree uncle she’d grown up with, the uncle who was always teasing and laughing and playing with her.
She expected to be shuffled away shortly after giving her statement, taken home to face her parents, but instead she and Rafe had been left outside to wait for Sara and her uncle. They stood on the fringes of the scene, not really a part of the investigation but not forbidden from it either. Ignored was more like it.
Or forgotten.
She watched in silence as officers moved in and out of the house, unable to stop thinking about what was in there.
But not about the bodies so much, and not about the blood either. Although both were forever seared into her memory, permanently etched into her mind’s eye.
It was something else that bothered her, niggled at her.
Something wrong about what she’d seen.
Something was . . . off.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, replaying the scene in her head once more. She thought of the word staged, and realized it fit the scene. The father had been placed beside the mother who had been placed beside the son. The only thing missing was a family dog.
Violet’s head snapped up as she realized what was bothering her. Not the dog at all, but what was absent from the scene.
“Rafe,” she said urgently, reaching for his sleeve and pulling him from his own quiet reverie. She knew where he’d been, what he’d been thinking about. Rafe had his own skeletons, and dead families played right into his deepest fears. “Where’s Sara? Do you know where she went?”
Rafe looked at her, his eyes still glazed. “No.” He shook his head. “Inside, maybe . . .”
Violet sprinted toward the house, but Rafe caught up to her, grabbing her arm to stop her. “Jesus. What’s up with you?”
“Something’s wrong. I need to go in there.”
“There’s a lot wrong in there, V.” He frowned back at her.
“No. I mean, I know . . . but there’s something I need to see . . . feel . . .” She trailed off, unable to explain what she was thinking. And then she looked past him. “Uncle Stephen!” She waved at her uncle who had just emerged from the front door.
He was rubbing his eyes when he looked up at her, and his expression, that look of worry on his face, deepened. “What are you still doing here, Vi?” he asked, pulling her aside. “I thought you’d left—”
“Uncle Stephen, I need to go back inside,” she insisted, cutting him off.
