The Last Echo
Page 38
Since she didn’t trust her dulled senses, she kept her eyes peeled, searching for signs that she wasn’t alone. She peered into the shadows around each Dumpster and garbage can she passed, making sure no one was hidden there waiting to pounce on a girl who was all by herself in a creepy alley. She knew her imagination was working overtime, but even so, she breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the sidewalk and made a quick right-hand turn, joining the heavy foot traffic in the U District as she scanned the storefronts for The Mecca.
The café was really just a small soup-and-sandwich shop that, like so many others in the city, also served espresso and pastries. Outside, there was a cheerful red awning with The Mecca painted in swirling gold letters. It was inviting, Violet thought as she ducked through the entrance and the bells over the door jangled.
Inside, tables painted a glossy black were packed together, leaving little room to navigate between them. One entire wall was littered with a hodgepodge of framed paintings, each with a dangling, handwritten price tag, and Violet guessed they were probably on consignment from local artists. The paintings themselves ranged from generic cityscapes of the skyline and the Space Needle to the more exotic—and infinitely more colorful—paintings of fairies or pixies or other scantily clad, winged women. There was a large handwritten chalkboard above the counter that served as the menu, and a selection of coffee syrups littered the countertops around the industrial-sized stainless steel espresso machine.
Violet scanned the small late-afternoon crowd, not sure exactly what she’d expected to find, but hoping she’d be able to help.
She wondered if this was a place Antonia Cornett might have frequented, a usual hangout for her like the Java Hut was for Violet and her friends. Or if it was just a fluke that Violet happened across this particular receipt and it meant nothing at all, just a random slip of paper that the girl had been using as a bookmark. Meaningless.
Violet stood in front of the counter, examining the large corkboard covered in Polaroid snapshots. There were photographs of the café’s employees, each with a drink recommendation listed below it. It was also handwritten with bold, colorful markers. There were lots of hand-drawn hearts and stars and flowers, and a drawing of a big coffee mug with swirls of steam rising from it.
Violet glanced at the red-haired girl behind the counter, and despite her puffy red eyes, she recognized her Polaroid from the board: She was the brown-sugar caramel macchiato.
“I’ll have that,” Violet said, pointing at the girl’s drink recommendation. “Decaf, please,” she added quickly.
The girl just nodded as she turned to the espresso machine. While she worked, Violet scanned the rest of the photos, thinking that maybe Antonia Cornett would be on there, that maybe she’d worked here before she vanished.
But by the time the girl was foaming the milk for the macchiato, Violet had given up. Antonia wasn’t there.
She suddenly felt foolish for coming all this way over a simple receipt. How many insignificant receipts did she herself have lying around? More than she cared to admit.
She paid for her drink, took a sip of the sickly sweet concoction, and then dropped it in the trash can on her way out the door.
As she stood on the sidewalk once more, she struggled with what she should do next.
This area, the University District, was always bustling with activity, something Violet appreciated about the city. She could lose herself in a place like this, vanish in the rush of people and never even be noticed.
She stepped out of the way of foot traffic, students rushing past her with backpacks dangling from their shoulders and messenger bags slung across their chests. Even on a Friday afternoon, everyone had someplace to be. Everyone but Violet. She’d come all the way to Seattle hoping to find something useful, but had come up empty.
There was a bright red newspaper stand on the corner, and Violet dug in her purse for some quarters. She had no real plan, but maybe if she could find a place to sit and read for a while something would come to her, an idea. Dropping her coins into the slot, she pulled down the glass door and then paused.
Something felt off, and even though her first reaction was to dismiss it as just another strange side effect of the pills, she couldn’t just ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Even the ones inside her nose felt suddenly itchy, tingly.
She glanced around, her hand still poised over the newspaper inside the metal box.
She couldn’t describe the feeling exactly, but suddenly her chest felt tight, crushed. It was as if someone was watching her.
But everyone around her was moving, striding with purpose.
“Violet?”
She jumped at the sound of her name, catching her arm when she let go of the newspaper box’s door. She turned toward the boy’s voice and practically sighed with relief when she saw Sam standing there, looking at her curiously. Skinny, scrawny Sam, just another misfit in a sea of college students . . . in more ways than one. They were like peas in a pod.
“What—?” She grabbed her newspaper and let the door swing shut again, banging rustily. And then she turned to look behind her one last time, but there was nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at him, at the button-down shirt that fit loosely from his gawky frame, and the messenger bag he gripped in front of his chest.
He smiled, making him look younger and even less like he belonged in the U District. “I could ask you the same thing. You don’t live around here, do you?”
The café was really just a small soup-and-sandwich shop that, like so many others in the city, also served espresso and pastries. Outside, there was a cheerful red awning with The Mecca painted in swirling gold letters. It was inviting, Violet thought as she ducked through the entrance and the bells over the door jangled.
Inside, tables painted a glossy black were packed together, leaving little room to navigate between them. One entire wall was littered with a hodgepodge of framed paintings, each with a dangling, handwritten price tag, and Violet guessed they were probably on consignment from local artists. The paintings themselves ranged from generic cityscapes of the skyline and the Space Needle to the more exotic—and infinitely more colorful—paintings of fairies or pixies or other scantily clad, winged women. There was a large handwritten chalkboard above the counter that served as the menu, and a selection of coffee syrups littered the countertops around the industrial-sized stainless steel espresso machine.
Violet scanned the small late-afternoon crowd, not sure exactly what she’d expected to find, but hoping she’d be able to help.
She wondered if this was a place Antonia Cornett might have frequented, a usual hangout for her like the Java Hut was for Violet and her friends. Or if it was just a fluke that Violet happened across this particular receipt and it meant nothing at all, just a random slip of paper that the girl had been using as a bookmark. Meaningless.
Violet stood in front of the counter, examining the large corkboard covered in Polaroid snapshots. There were photographs of the café’s employees, each with a drink recommendation listed below it. It was also handwritten with bold, colorful markers. There were lots of hand-drawn hearts and stars and flowers, and a drawing of a big coffee mug with swirls of steam rising from it.
Violet glanced at the red-haired girl behind the counter, and despite her puffy red eyes, she recognized her Polaroid from the board: She was the brown-sugar caramel macchiato.
“I’ll have that,” Violet said, pointing at the girl’s drink recommendation. “Decaf, please,” she added quickly.
The girl just nodded as she turned to the espresso machine. While she worked, Violet scanned the rest of the photos, thinking that maybe Antonia Cornett would be on there, that maybe she’d worked here before she vanished.
But by the time the girl was foaming the milk for the macchiato, Violet had given up. Antonia wasn’t there.
She suddenly felt foolish for coming all this way over a simple receipt. How many insignificant receipts did she herself have lying around? More than she cared to admit.
She paid for her drink, took a sip of the sickly sweet concoction, and then dropped it in the trash can on her way out the door.
As she stood on the sidewalk once more, she struggled with what she should do next.
This area, the University District, was always bustling with activity, something Violet appreciated about the city. She could lose herself in a place like this, vanish in the rush of people and never even be noticed.
She stepped out of the way of foot traffic, students rushing past her with backpacks dangling from their shoulders and messenger bags slung across their chests. Even on a Friday afternoon, everyone had someplace to be. Everyone but Violet. She’d come all the way to Seattle hoping to find something useful, but had come up empty.
There was a bright red newspaper stand on the corner, and Violet dug in her purse for some quarters. She had no real plan, but maybe if she could find a place to sit and read for a while something would come to her, an idea. Dropping her coins into the slot, she pulled down the glass door and then paused.
Something felt off, and even though her first reaction was to dismiss it as just another strange side effect of the pills, she couldn’t just ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Even the ones inside her nose felt suddenly itchy, tingly.
She glanced around, her hand still poised over the newspaper inside the metal box.
She couldn’t describe the feeling exactly, but suddenly her chest felt tight, crushed. It was as if someone was watching her.
But everyone around her was moving, striding with purpose.
“Violet?”
She jumped at the sound of her name, catching her arm when she let go of the newspaper box’s door. She turned toward the boy’s voice and practically sighed with relief when she saw Sam standing there, looking at her curiously. Skinny, scrawny Sam, just another misfit in a sea of college students . . . in more ways than one. They were like peas in a pod.
“What—?” She grabbed her newspaper and let the door swing shut again, banging rustily. And then she turned to look behind her one last time, but there was nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at him, at the button-down shirt that fit loosely from his gawky frame, and the messenger bag he gripped in front of his chest.
He smiled, making him look younger and even less like he belonged in the U District. “I could ask you the same thing. You don’t live around here, do you?”
