The Last Echo
Page 49
Violet shrugged. “I don’t know.” She wandered to a shelf of pretty brown bottles, each with matching labels from a company called Organic Alchemy. She picked up a jar of patchouli oil with a black rubber stopper and uncorked it, taking a sniff. “I guess I wanted to make sure you knew. About Rafe.” And then she realized what a lame excuse that was, knowing she could just as easily have called to give Krystal the news. “I guess . . .” Her voice trailed off, trying to decide. “I guess I wasn’t really ready to go home yet. Can I ask you a question?”
Krystal wandered over to the pile of pillows and dropped down, crossing her legs in front of her. She leaned back on her arms, staring up at Violet. “Shoot.”
Violet sat too, so that she was across the table from the other girl, staring at her wide, dark eyes, envying the way Krystal looked so open, so willing to share her innermost thoughts and feelings. “Do they scare you? The ghosts? When they talk to you, are you ever afraid?”
“Afraid? Nah.” Krystal’s lips curled downward as she shook her head. “They’ve been coming to visit me since I was a baby. My mom talked to them, and probably her mom too. I never knew it was weird to have real imaginary friends, to have conversations with people no one else could see. It wasn’t until Missy Bigsby made fun of me in kindergarten, calling me Crazy Krystal, that I realized I was the only one doing it. Everyone else thought I was just . . . talking to myself.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Missy can suck it, if you know what I mean. Some girls deserve to end up divorced and alone at twenty-one.”
Violet couldn’t help laughing, even though she felt bad for the kindergarten version of Krystal. She would have been mortified if the other kids had known about her secret. “So you and this Missy girl, you stayed in touch?”
Krystal smiled deviously. “Let’s just say that one of my invisible ‘friends’ didn’t appreciate Missy flippin’ me crap, and gave me a heads-up about what her future held.” She looked satisfied with herself, a smug smile curving her full lips.
“Wow,” Violet breathed. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Please, I was five. I’ve got better things to do now than worry about whether people think I’m crazy or not.” Krystal toyed with a small rip in her fuchsia tights, reminding Violet that she was more sensitive than she let on.
“Well, if you’re crazy then I guess we all are,” Violet said. “I mean, think about it, you might talk to dead people, but I go out of my way to find them.”
Krystal snorted, glancing up from the hole she was picking at. “You got that right. I guess crazy isn’t all bad. Sometimes crazy saves lives.”
Violet thought about Antonia Cornett—about her ghost—coming to visit Krystal and telling her that Casey Atkins was missing, that she’d been taken by the collector. She stopped watching Krystal’s hot pink fingernails tugging at her frayed tights and watched her eyes instead. “Do you think we’ll find Casey, Krystal? Alive, I mean?”
Letting out a heavy breath, Krystal looked up at Violet. “I hope so, Vi. Goddammit, I really, really hope so.”
Denial
HE WATCHED HER FROM THE DOORWAY, HIS heart aching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently setting the tray on the dresser by the door. “You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
Her wide eyes stared back at him, and he thought maybe—maybe—he should uncover her mouth so she could answer him. Maybe she was ready to be quiet now.
He stepped closer, slowly, so as not to startle her. She had a delicate nature, he’d learned. Like a butterfly. Or a flower. In the end, it was probably the reason they never really clicked, why she couldn’t be the one. There was nothing delicate about him; his mother had always told him so.
That didn’t mean she should be frightened of him now, though.
He slipped the rag away from her lips and frowned when he saw how dry they were.
“Here.” He reached for the tube of ointment on the bed stand. “Let me . . .” Again he was cautious, ever aware of her constitution. He didn’t want her to cry again. And he certainly didn’t want her to scream. “Better?” he asked after applying a generous layer of the cream to her parched lips.
She didn’t answer right away, just kept that frightened-as-a-lamb gaze trained on him until he felt his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.
“Stop it.” His voice quavered, even though he told himself he had nothing to be ashamed of. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I’ve done my best to treat you kindly. I’ve fed you and cared for you when you were all alone. You remember that, don’t you?” He reached out and caressed her cheek. It was fine skin, soft like silk. He closed his eyes, pretending that the two of them could stay like this forever.
When he opened them again, all traces of fear were gone from her eyes. She felt it too, he realized. She wasn’t ready for it to end.
“Can I?” he asked as he lifted the sheet. He climbed in without waiting for an answer. He knew from her expression that she wanted it as much as he did.
His mouth went dry, just as it always did when he got this close to a girl, even the ones he knew this well. It was a thrilling feeling, and he felt bolder . . . he wanted more. His hand traced the soft curve of her belly and he pulled her close, hugging her tightly until they were one body. One mind.
He nuzzled the side of her neck and breathed in the scent of her, hoping he’d never forget this moment as he slipped his hand down the length of her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers.
Krystal wandered over to the pile of pillows and dropped down, crossing her legs in front of her. She leaned back on her arms, staring up at Violet. “Shoot.”
Violet sat too, so that she was across the table from the other girl, staring at her wide, dark eyes, envying the way Krystal looked so open, so willing to share her innermost thoughts and feelings. “Do they scare you? The ghosts? When they talk to you, are you ever afraid?”
“Afraid? Nah.” Krystal’s lips curled downward as she shook her head. “They’ve been coming to visit me since I was a baby. My mom talked to them, and probably her mom too. I never knew it was weird to have real imaginary friends, to have conversations with people no one else could see. It wasn’t until Missy Bigsby made fun of me in kindergarten, calling me Crazy Krystal, that I realized I was the only one doing it. Everyone else thought I was just . . . talking to myself.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Missy can suck it, if you know what I mean. Some girls deserve to end up divorced and alone at twenty-one.”
Violet couldn’t help laughing, even though she felt bad for the kindergarten version of Krystal. She would have been mortified if the other kids had known about her secret. “So you and this Missy girl, you stayed in touch?”
Krystal smiled deviously. “Let’s just say that one of my invisible ‘friends’ didn’t appreciate Missy flippin’ me crap, and gave me a heads-up about what her future held.” She looked satisfied with herself, a smug smile curving her full lips.
“Wow,” Violet breathed. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Please, I was five. I’ve got better things to do now than worry about whether people think I’m crazy or not.” Krystal toyed with a small rip in her fuchsia tights, reminding Violet that she was more sensitive than she let on.
“Well, if you’re crazy then I guess we all are,” Violet said. “I mean, think about it, you might talk to dead people, but I go out of my way to find them.”
Krystal snorted, glancing up from the hole she was picking at. “You got that right. I guess crazy isn’t all bad. Sometimes crazy saves lives.”
Violet thought about Antonia Cornett—about her ghost—coming to visit Krystal and telling her that Casey Atkins was missing, that she’d been taken by the collector. She stopped watching Krystal’s hot pink fingernails tugging at her frayed tights and watched her eyes instead. “Do you think we’ll find Casey, Krystal? Alive, I mean?”
Letting out a heavy breath, Krystal looked up at Violet. “I hope so, Vi. Goddammit, I really, really hope so.”
Denial
HE WATCHED HER FROM THE DOORWAY, HIS heart aching. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently setting the tray on the dresser by the door. “You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?”
Her wide eyes stared back at him, and he thought maybe—maybe—he should uncover her mouth so she could answer him. Maybe she was ready to be quiet now.
He stepped closer, slowly, so as not to startle her. She had a delicate nature, he’d learned. Like a butterfly. Or a flower. In the end, it was probably the reason they never really clicked, why she couldn’t be the one. There was nothing delicate about him; his mother had always told him so.
That didn’t mean she should be frightened of him now, though.
He slipped the rag away from her lips and frowned when he saw how dry they were.
“Here.” He reached for the tube of ointment on the bed stand. “Let me . . .” Again he was cautious, ever aware of her constitution. He didn’t want her to cry again. And he certainly didn’t want her to scream. “Better?” he asked after applying a generous layer of the cream to her parched lips.
She didn’t answer right away, just kept that frightened-as-a-lamb gaze trained on him until he felt his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.
“Stop it.” His voice quavered, even though he told himself he had nothing to be ashamed of. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I’ve done my best to treat you kindly. I’ve fed you and cared for you when you were all alone. You remember that, don’t you?” He reached out and caressed her cheek. It was fine skin, soft like silk. He closed his eyes, pretending that the two of them could stay like this forever.
When he opened them again, all traces of fear were gone from her eyes. She felt it too, he realized. She wasn’t ready for it to end.
“Can I?” he asked as he lifted the sheet. He climbed in without waiting for an answer. He knew from her expression that she wanted it as much as he did.
His mouth went dry, just as it always did when he got this close to a girl, even the ones he knew this well. It was a thrilling feeling, and he felt bolder . . . he wanted more. His hand traced the soft curve of her belly and he pulled her close, hugging her tightly until they were one body. One mind.
He nuzzled the side of her neck and breathed in the scent of her, hoping he’d never forget this moment as he slipped his hand down the length of her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers.
