Desires of the Dead
Page 15
Violet could see the draw for Chelsea; he was sort of stunning to look at.
So then what was Jay’s excuse? She jokingly hoped it wasn’t the adorable dimple too.
Sitting next to Jules, Chelsea, who’d been unusually quiet, immediately perked up. “Nothing. We were just wondering what was taking you so long.” She beamed at Mike.
Mike paused, not sure what to make of her comment, and then shot a half smile in Jay’s direction. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I showed up when I did then.”
Chelsea giggled, a strange, high-pitched sound that nearly caused Violet to choke on her food. What the hell is going on with her? Violet thought, eyeing Chelsea warily. Someone needs to check her meds!
“Anyway,” Chelsea announced, as though she’d been interrupted by Mike’s arrival, rather than moping over his absence, “what do you guys think about all of us getting together tonight? Maybe going to the movies or something?”
Violet’s heart sank; a night out with “everyone” was definitely not what she’d been hoping for. Her shoulders fell as she sighed.
But it was Jay who cut Chelsea off before she could firm up her playdate. “Actually, Violet and I already have plans. We’re gonna do something by ourselves tonight.” He nudged Violet with his knee beneath the table. And to soften the blow with Chelsea, he added, “Maybe we can all go this weekend instead.” Then, keeping his voice low, he said to Violet, “Besides, we’ve got some homework to do.”
Violet sighed again, this time an entirely different kind of sound. He hadn’t forgotten about her after all. And she wasn’t losing him to a new guy with great dimples.
His barely subtle use of the word homework didn’t escape her notice either.
She smiled to herself.
“Sure. No problem, man,” Mike agreed as he took an enormous bite from his sandwich, making nearly half of it disappear at once. He was completely unfazed by Jay’s announcement, and Violet suddenly liked him a little more.
Chelsea, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, like she was shriveling, and Violet actually felt sorry for her friend, something that took her entirely by surprise.
But as bad as she felt for Chelsea, Violet wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to be alone with Jay.
Violet was sitting in the passenger seat of Jay’s car after school when the first call came in. It was a Seattle area code, but she didn’t recognize the number, and she wasn’t in the mood to find out who it was, so she hit Ignore on her phone.
The caller didn’t leave a message.
Jay dropped her off at home, kissing her sweetly with a promise that he’d be back as soon as he finished up the to-do list his mom left him every afternoon.
Generally the list consisted of picking up around the house and taking out the garbage, but Jay was like the man of the house, and occasionally his mom threw in an odd handyman job or two. He’d become rather skilled with a screwdriver and a roll of duct tape.
As his car pulled away, Violet’s cell phone rang again.
She checked it . . . it was the same number.
She hit Ignore for a second time, and, still, there was no message.
As she stood outside her front door, Violet glanced toward the street and watched Jay’s car disappear. She tried to disregard the nagging sensation that had been plaguing her over the past week or so. She’d been aware of it even while she’d been lost in that in-between haze, awaiting the boy’s burial. It was the disturbing feeling that she wasn’t alone, that someone was following her . . . watching her.
It’s just your imagination, she told herself for the umpteenth time, nothing more.
She scanned her driveway once more before ducking inside her house and dumping her backpack by the door. Her mom was still out in her art studio—a converted shed in their backyard—working. But there was a note on the kitchen counter waiting for Violet.
It was a message. A name and phone number. The same number that had called her cell phone twice already.
Apparently someone really wanted to talk to her, but Violet didn’t recognize the name her mom had written down.
She pocketed the note, grabbed a can of soda, and wandered up to her room to find out who was so desperate to reach her.
She sat cross-legged on the bed as she scrolled down to her missed calls and hit Enter.
It rang twice before a woman’s voice answered on the other end. “FBI, Seattle Field Office. How may I direct your call?”
Violet jerked the phone away from her ear as if it had just caught on fire. She hung up and threw it against her pillow.
What the hell was that? Why was someone from the FBI calling her?
Blood rushed noisily through her ears as she pulled the message out of her pocket and reread the name.
Sara Priest.
Who the hell was Sara Priest? And why was she calling Violet?
Violet felt momentarily staggered. She thought about all of the law enforcement people she’d had contact with over the past year.
After the shooting at the dance, she’d given statements to the police, repeating her words over and over again to more officers and detectives than she could count. She’d even spoken to the prosecutors who were handling the case against the other serial killer, the partner who’d been captured alive.
But never to the FBI. Never to anyone named Sara.
She wondered if somehow the FBI had become involved in the case. But why now? They already had one of the men responsible in custody, probably imprisoned for the rest of his life. And the other was dead.
So then what was Jay’s excuse? She jokingly hoped it wasn’t the adorable dimple too.
Sitting next to Jules, Chelsea, who’d been unusually quiet, immediately perked up. “Nothing. We were just wondering what was taking you so long.” She beamed at Mike.
Mike paused, not sure what to make of her comment, and then shot a half smile in Jay’s direction. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I showed up when I did then.”
Chelsea giggled, a strange, high-pitched sound that nearly caused Violet to choke on her food. What the hell is going on with her? Violet thought, eyeing Chelsea warily. Someone needs to check her meds!
“Anyway,” Chelsea announced, as though she’d been interrupted by Mike’s arrival, rather than moping over his absence, “what do you guys think about all of us getting together tonight? Maybe going to the movies or something?”
Violet’s heart sank; a night out with “everyone” was definitely not what she’d been hoping for. Her shoulders fell as she sighed.
But it was Jay who cut Chelsea off before she could firm up her playdate. “Actually, Violet and I already have plans. We’re gonna do something by ourselves tonight.” He nudged Violet with his knee beneath the table. And to soften the blow with Chelsea, he added, “Maybe we can all go this weekend instead.” Then, keeping his voice low, he said to Violet, “Besides, we’ve got some homework to do.”
Violet sighed again, this time an entirely different kind of sound. He hadn’t forgotten about her after all. And she wasn’t losing him to a new guy with great dimples.
His barely subtle use of the word homework didn’t escape her notice either.
She smiled to herself.
“Sure. No problem, man,” Mike agreed as he took an enormous bite from his sandwich, making nearly half of it disappear at once. He was completely unfazed by Jay’s announcement, and Violet suddenly liked him a little more.
Chelsea, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, like she was shriveling, and Violet actually felt sorry for her friend, something that took her entirely by surprise.
But as bad as she felt for Chelsea, Violet wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to be alone with Jay.
Violet was sitting in the passenger seat of Jay’s car after school when the first call came in. It was a Seattle area code, but she didn’t recognize the number, and she wasn’t in the mood to find out who it was, so she hit Ignore on her phone.
The caller didn’t leave a message.
Jay dropped her off at home, kissing her sweetly with a promise that he’d be back as soon as he finished up the to-do list his mom left him every afternoon.
Generally the list consisted of picking up around the house and taking out the garbage, but Jay was like the man of the house, and occasionally his mom threw in an odd handyman job or two. He’d become rather skilled with a screwdriver and a roll of duct tape.
As his car pulled away, Violet’s cell phone rang again.
She checked it . . . it was the same number.
She hit Ignore for a second time, and, still, there was no message.
As she stood outside her front door, Violet glanced toward the street and watched Jay’s car disappear. She tried to disregard the nagging sensation that had been plaguing her over the past week or so. She’d been aware of it even while she’d been lost in that in-between haze, awaiting the boy’s burial. It was the disturbing feeling that she wasn’t alone, that someone was following her . . . watching her.
It’s just your imagination, she told herself for the umpteenth time, nothing more.
She scanned her driveway once more before ducking inside her house and dumping her backpack by the door. Her mom was still out in her art studio—a converted shed in their backyard—working. But there was a note on the kitchen counter waiting for Violet.
It was a message. A name and phone number. The same number that had called her cell phone twice already.
Apparently someone really wanted to talk to her, but Violet didn’t recognize the name her mom had written down.
She pocketed the note, grabbed a can of soda, and wandered up to her room to find out who was so desperate to reach her.
She sat cross-legged on the bed as she scrolled down to her missed calls and hit Enter.
It rang twice before a woman’s voice answered on the other end. “FBI, Seattle Field Office. How may I direct your call?”
Violet jerked the phone away from her ear as if it had just caught on fire. She hung up and threw it against her pillow.
What the hell was that? Why was someone from the FBI calling her?
Blood rushed noisily through her ears as she pulled the message out of her pocket and reread the name.
Sara Priest.
Who the hell was Sara Priest? And why was she calling Violet?
Violet felt momentarily staggered. She thought about all of the law enforcement people she’d had contact with over the past year.
After the shooting at the dance, she’d given statements to the police, repeating her words over and over again to more officers and detectives than she could count. She’d even spoken to the prosecutors who were handling the case against the other serial killer, the partner who’d been captured alive.
But never to the FBI. Never to anyone named Sara.
She wondered if somehow the FBI had become involved in the case. But why now? They already had one of the men responsible in custody, probably imprisoned for the rest of his life. And the other was dead.
