The Last Echo
Page 71
“I saw him, and I know his name: Caine. He looks so . . . so normal. So sane. Like any other college guy at the campus. I can see why the girls wouldn’t have been afraid of him. But he’s so f**king dark, V. He’s so twisted and messed up inside. He steals them away and keeps them locked up. He wants them to love him. That’s what he’s been searching for all along. Love.”
Violet cringed, imagining what it must’ve been like for those girls, held hostage while he tried to convince them to love him. And she realized he wasn’t just a collector.
He was a girlfriend collector.
“I saw where he lives too. A nice place in the city with a basement that he converted into a dungeon.” He hesitated, letting out a loud breath. “Sara’s on her way there now with the cops. They’re gonna stop him.”
Violet shook her head, blinking, her hands trembling. “I can’t believe it, Rafe . . .” She whispered, her words filled with reverence. “You did it.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for calling me.”
“I knew you’d want to know.” Rafe answered as if nothing had changed between them . . . even though everything had.
Violet hung up the phone, realizing a huge burden had been lifted, one she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying.
Caine wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else.
Thanks to Rafe.
She wished her gift worked like that, that she could help the way he just had. But even if she couldn’t, she was glad to know there were people like Rafe out there. Like her team.
She squeezed her fists again as she paced restlessly, wishing Jay would hurry up and get there, and wanting her hands and feet to stop tingling. She was seriously starting to worry that she was having some sort of delayed neurological reaction to her attack, that maybe she’d been more injured than anyone had realized. Not only could she not shake the tingling sensation, but it seemed to be getting worse.
She finally decided that her blood sugar must be low and she needed food, a sandwich or something. She hadn’t eaten anything all afternoon, and on the drive back from Rafe’s, her stomach had been grumbling noisily.
She pulled some bread, sliced ham, mustard, cheese, and lettuce from the fridge, and was searching for a tomato when she heard the clattering sound coming from the front porch. Closing the refrigerator door, she listened for it again. It was hard to hear anything above the heavy raindrops that pummeled the house, but she concentrated anyway, waiting.
There, she thought when she heard it again. A rustling noise. Someone’s definitely out there.
She checked the clock. Jay was still at work for another half hour, but she picked up her phone anyway, making sure she hadn’t missed a call from him while she’d been on the other line.
There was nothing on the caller ID. Nothing since she’d talked to Rafe.
She knew it was probably just the wind, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. She blamed the stupid prickling that set her hairs on end, that and the message from Sara, for making her so jumpy. Either way, she couldn’t just stand there, waiting to see if an intruder was trying to break into her house, could she?
She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the knife she’d been planning to use on her tomato, and with the phone in the other hand, she tiptoed toward the front door.
Her pulse was racing as she stopped in front of it, pressing her ear against its cool surface as she tried to see out the peephole.
As far as she could tell, there was no one out there. But she waited anyway, straining to hear something . . . anything besides the rain, her fingers tightening around the knife’s grip.
She concentrated on each breath she took, trying to calm herself, to convince herself that everything was fine, that she was just overreacting. It had been a rough week, and her imagination was working overtime.
And then she heard the sound again, a soft scratching on the other side of the door. Like nails . . . or claws, to be precise.
Her shoulders sagged. Carl! It was just the cat, trying to let someone know he was out there.
She laughed out loud as she crept to the window, peering out just to be certain. She saw him sitting there, impatiently flicking his tail back and forth as he waited for someone to let him in. Violet tapped the inside of the window and his head snapped her way, their eyes locking.
“I’m coming.” She grinned, letting the curtain fall back in place as she unbolted the door and stepped aside. “Man, you’re—” She froze, covering her nose with the back of her hand, trying not to drop the phone as the harsh odor of burning rubber assaulted her, making her eyes burn.
Carl had been hunting.
“Oh my God, cat, you reek. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay in here tonight—” she complained, setting the phone down as she tried to scoop the cat up. But he recognized her tone—he’d heard it too many times before—and he slipped past her, racing up the stairs before she could catch him.
“Great,” she muttered, blinking her watering eyes as she waited for the acrid stench to fade. She turned and bolted the door. She’d have to find him and put him out eventually; there was no way she could sleep under the same roof as him until that particular imprint lost some of its . . . impact.
This is just perfect. Violet sighed, rolling her aching shoulders as she shuffled back toward the kitchen, the knife hanging loosely at her side now. On top of everything else, she either felt a draft or she was on the verge of a fever. She wondered if her mom had forgotten to shut a window again. Her timing sucked since they were in the middle of a rainstorm.
Violet cringed, imagining what it must’ve been like for those girls, held hostage while he tried to convince them to love him. And she realized he wasn’t just a collector.
He was a girlfriend collector.
“I saw where he lives too. A nice place in the city with a basement that he converted into a dungeon.” He hesitated, letting out a loud breath. “Sara’s on her way there now with the cops. They’re gonna stop him.”
Violet shook her head, blinking, her hands trembling. “I can’t believe it, Rafe . . .” She whispered, her words filled with reverence. “You did it.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for calling me.”
“I knew you’d want to know.” Rafe answered as if nothing had changed between them . . . even though everything had.
Violet hung up the phone, realizing a huge burden had been lifted, one she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying.
Caine wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else.
Thanks to Rafe.
She wished her gift worked like that, that she could help the way he just had. But even if she couldn’t, she was glad to know there were people like Rafe out there. Like her team.
She squeezed her fists again as she paced restlessly, wishing Jay would hurry up and get there, and wanting her hands and feet to stop tingling. She was seriously starting to worry that she was having some sort of delayed neurological reaction to her attack, that maybe she’d been more injured than anyone had realized. Not only could she not shake the tingling sensation, but it seemed to be getting worse.
She finally decided that her blood sugar must be low and she needed food, a sandwich or something. She hadn’t eaten anything all afternoon, and on the drive back from Rafe’s, her stomach had been grumbling noisily.
She pulled some bread, sliced ham, mustard, cheese, and lettuce from the fridge, and was searching for a tomato when she heard the clattering sound coming from the front porch. Closing the refrigerator door, she listened for it again. It was hard to hear anything above the heavy raindrops that pummeled the house, but she concentrated anyway, waiting.
There, she thought when she heard it again. A rustling noise. Someone’s definitely out there.
She checked the clock. Jay was still at work for another half hour, but she picked up her phone anyway, making sure she hadn’t missed a call from him while she’d been on the other line.
There was nothing on the caller ID. Nothing since she’d talked to Rafe.
She knew it was probably just the wind, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. She blamed the stupid prickling that set her hairs on end, that and the message from Sara, for making her so jumpy. Either way, she couldn’t just stand there, waiting to see if an intruder was trying to break into her house, could she?
She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the knife she’d been planning to use on her tomato, and with the phone in the other hand, she tiptoed toward the front door.
Her pulse was racing as she stopped in front of it, pressing her ear against its cool surface as she tried to see out the peephole.
As far as she could tell, there was no one out there. But she waited anyway, straining to hear something . . . anything besides the rain, her fingers tightening around the knife’s grip.
She concentrated on each breath she took, trying to calm herself, to convince herself that everything was fine, that she was just overreacting. It had been a rough week, and her imagination was working overtime.
And then she heard the sound again, a soft scratching on the other side of the door. Like nails . . . or claws, to be precise.
Her shoulders sagged. Carl! It was just the cat, trying to let someone know he was out there.
She laughed out loud as she crept to the window, peering out just to be certain. She saw him sitting there, impatiently flicking his tail back and forth as he waited for someone to let him in. Violet tapped the inside of the window and his head snapped her way, their eyes locking.
“I’m coming.” She grinned, letting the curtain fall back in place as she unbolted the door and stepped aside. “Man, you’re—” She froze, covering her nose with the back of her hand, trying not to drop the phone as the harsh odor of burning rubber assaulted her, making her eyes burn.
Carl had been hunting.
“Oh my God, cat, you reek. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay in here tonight—” she complained, setting the phone down as she tried to scoop the cat up. But he recognized her tone—he’d heard it too many times before—and he slipped past her, racing up the stairs before she could catch him.
“Great,” she muttered, blinking her watering eyes as she waited for the acrid stench to fade. She turned and bolted the door. She’d have to find him and put him out eventually; there was no way she could sleep under the same roof as him until that particular imprint lost some of its . . . impact.
This is just perfect. Violet sighed, rolling her aching shoulders as she shuffled back toward the kitchen, the knife hanging loosely at her side now. On top of everything else, she either felt a draft or she was on the verge of a fever. She wondered if her mom had forgotten to shut a window again. Her timing sucked since they were in the middle of a rainstorm.
