She walked through the front doors, expecting the place to be empty on a Sunday afternoon. Or hoping, anyway.
Instead there was nearly as much activity on a weekend as there was during the week. She was met by several familiar faces and a few equally identifiable echoes—the kind of imprints that those in law enforcement sometimes carried. Among them, the pungent taste of dandelions that she immediately knew was her uncle.
“Hey, Uncle Stephen,” Violet said, when she spotted him. “Aunt Kat told me you were here. I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.”
“Of course. I’ll meet you in my office.” And even though Violet could hear warmth in his tone, she also recognized the concern.
When he closed the door behind him, his demeanor shifted and his expression became worried. “All right, what’s up? You hate coming here.” He took his seat behind the desk.
Violet winced. “I don’t hate it—”
He stopped her. “Don’t give me that. You hate it, and you know it. So why are you here?”
She wanted to tell him, to talk to him about everything that had happened . . . the little boy down on the waterfront, the dead cat she’d found in her front yard, the visits from Sara Priest and Rafe. Those were all the reasons she’d come. She needed his help, his advice. But now that she was sitting across from him, looking him in the eye, she couldn’t do it.
He was the sheriff, yes, but he was also her father’s brother. And because of her, he now carried the imprint of murder, justified or not.
Hadn’t she caused her family enough grief already?
Her smile was shaky. “I wanted to see if I could pick up some of those sticker badges you give out to kids. I like to give Jay a hard time about his little man-crush on you.”
Her uncle’s laugh filled his cramped office. “You’re terrible, Vi. You act more like your aunt Kat every day. Has she been giving you lessons?” But he was already reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a stack of the foil stickers. He slid them across the desk. “How’s he ever gonna stop being so jumpy around me if you don’t stop teasing him?”
This time Violet’s smile was genuine. “Give him time, Uncle Stephen; he’ll relax. He’s just grateful, that’s all.” She slid the stickers into her jacket pocket, feeling like a coward.
She didn’t bother telling her uncle—again—that she was just as grateful as Jay was, because he already knew. She could never repay him.
He held her gaze for a moment, studying her.
“Well, thanks for these.” She pointed to her pocket, trying to think of something more to say, something to stop her from feeling so awkward. “I guess I’ll let you get back to work.”
He walked her out and, once on the sidewalk in front of the station, he hugged her. She winced against the bitter taste that saturated her mouth when he did.
He pressed a hard kiss on top of her head. “I love you, kiddo. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
Violet looked up at him, knowing he suspected she’d come for something more than just the stickers. And feeling bad that she hadn’t been able to confide in him.
“Thanks, Uncle Stephen. I love you too.”
She closed the door of her car and started the engine before pulling out her cell phone. She scrolled through the missed calls in her call log and hit Enter.
After two rings, the call was answered, and Violet spoke, her voice sounding shaky but resigned. “This is Violet Ambrose,” she told the person on the other end. “I guess we need to talk.”
Violet stood outside her private graveyard as the first stars pierced the sable sky. The woods beyond had become a collection of shadows, a collage in charcoals and grays. She shivered, but not from the cold. Her coat was plenty warm; it was doubt that wracked her now.
She studied the handmade markers, headstones that littered the ground before her. Why did some bodies—like these, like the girls from last year and the boy from the waterfront—call to her while others let her be? Why did some bodies need to be discovered so badly that they caused her physical pain?
Violet had her suspicions—speculation, really—that it had something to do with the brutality of their deaths. About lives unfinished. And it seemed, so far anyway, that human bodies pulled more than animals.
But she had no way to know for sure; there didn’t seem to be any hard-and-fast rules. So far all she had were guesses and theories.
She hugged herself, listening to the backdrop of static that the reburied bodies of her cemetery created, the satisfying hum of peace as the echoes blended together. It settled over her as she remained silent, motionless.
She was still angry that she hadn’t had the guts to talk to her uncle today. She should have told him everything; she hated keeping so many secrets. But she’d hate it more if her family—and Jay—had to worry for her the way they had before, when a killer had hunted her. She couldn’t bear to cause that sort of pain again.
No, she decided. She would handle this on her own, at least while it was still manageable.
The boy’s body had been recovered; there was nothing more she could do for him.
The dead cat was disturbing and threatening, but so far that was the only message she’d received. Maybe it was just some twisted prank.
And Sara Priest was just a woman from the FBI who wanted to talk to Violet. Talk. She could do that without her parents holding her hand, couldn’t she?
So why did she feel so guilty about not telling them? Why did her secrets feel more like lies?
Then there was Rafe. She knew Jay was still upset with her for not explaining who he was after he’d shown up at the theater the night before; why else wouldn’t he have called her while he was at work today? He always called.
She blew on her frozen fingers as she turned away from her graveyard, her feet crunching through the ice-crusted grass.
She hoped that, after tomorrow, she’d have some of the answers she was searching for.
Chapter 13
Violet’s stomach was twisted in knots as she got on the elevator in the parking garage. This was the sort of place that could give a girl nightmares. At least, the kind of girl who could sense the imprints of those who had killed.
This was exactly the kind of place Violet normally avoided—hospitals, morgues, and police stations. Even stores that specifically catered to hunters.
And FBI field offices.
Not that she’d been given much choice in the matter. Violet got the impression that FBI Sara wasn’t planning to drop it.
The elevator ride upset her already queasy stomach, and she fought a new wave of nausea. She leaned her head back against the cool steel wall and took several long, deep breaths, bracing herself against the onslaught of sensory inputs she assumed awaited her, the ones that only she could decipher.
When the doors opened, she was released into a small lobby, complete with metal detectors and armed security.
So far, so good, Violet thought, relaxing only slightly when her senses remained unafflicted. The security guards had obviously never had to gun anyone down in the line of duty. At least no one who’d died.
Violet secretly mocked herself for being such a baby. With any luck, she’d be in and out of here in no time. She could do this.
The downtown building was basically what Violet had imagined. She’d seen enough action movies to have a picture in her mind, and this place pretty much fit the bill. Maybe a little more sterile than she’d expected, and a little more subdued and peaceful, but otherwise very governmental.
Unfortunately none of these observations made Violet feel any more at ease.
Once she’d shown her ID and made it through security, one of the guards called Sara Priest to let her know that Violet had arrived.
Sara’s heels clicked on the floor when she came out to meet Violet in the lobby, and again, Violet was struck by how immaculate Sara was—the epitome of what an FBI agent should look like. The only thing missing were the dark shades.
Her greeting was a b
rief “I’m glad you could make it,” and they skipped the small talk as Sara silently led Violet down a corridor past offices and cubicles. The offices would have been like the ones in any other building, quiet and even boring, except that it was making Violet’s head pound to be there.
When they entered the small conference room, Sara closed the door behind them and pulled out a chair at the table, offering it to Violet.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Sara asked, her voice suggesting that she was making an effort, at least, to be polite.
But Violet was still mad about being bullied into coming and had decided to take a different approach. Something less than civil. She shook her head, stubbornly crossing her arms in front of her.
Sara took the seat across from Violet’s. When she sat down, her jacket draped open and Violet caught a glimpse of her gun’s handle, holstered in a leather shoulder strap she wore. Seeing the weapon fractured Violet’s resolve.
This wasn’t a game, the gun reminded her, and pouting wasn’t going to make this any easier. Violet uncrossed her arms.
“Ms. Ambrose, may I be blunt?” Without giving Violet a chance to respond, FBI Sara bulldozed on. “This meeting really has less to do with the murder of a little boy than it has to do with you.”
And, just like that, she had Violet’s interest.
“In fact, your statement is just a formality that will probably be filed away and forgotten.” She leaned forward then, narrowing her eyes as she watched Violet closely. “I, however, am fascinated.” She left the words dangling between them.
“Really?” Violet cleared her throat, doing her best to sound indifferent.
Sara nodded and leaned back, crossing her arms casually. “So, tell me. How does it work?”
Violet’s heart slammed against her rib cage. What exactly did she think she knew? How could she know anything at all?
She had to be bluffing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why was this phrase beginning to sound so familiar? She felt like every time she was with this woman, she was repeating those exact words.
“Come on, Violet.” And suddenly they were back on a first-name basis. “You know what I mean. Somehow, when no one else in the country could, you found that little boy. And since you couldn’t see him, and you damn sure didn’t hear him, there must’ve been something else. Something . . . special . . . about you.”
Violet wound her fists tightly beneath the table as she leaned forward. She tried to look confused. She wished there were awards for real-life acting performances, because she thought she was doing a pretty good job. “Like what?” she breathed, trying to mimic the blank expressions she’d seen on Claire’s face so many times before. Only, Claire’s were for real.
Sara paused, and there was an uncomfortable moment during which Violet thought that the woman might be second-guessing herself. Then Violet watched as the uncertainty changed to something else. A new tactic.
“All right. I can see you’re not entirely comfortable talking about this.” Sara’s voice was suddenly smooth, too smooth, and it made Violet even warier. “Clearly we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot—”
Violet interrupted with a sound that was half laugh, half snort. “Yeah, you think?”
Sara stopped and stared at Violet. And then the corner of her lip ticked up into a smile. A real smile. Sara sighed as she tugged off her jacket, slinging it over the back of her chair. She shook her head, meeting Violet’s gaze. “How about we start over? Why don’t I tell you a little bit about me?” Her tone was closer to genuine, bordering on sincere. “Are you sure you don’t want some water or something?”
“I’m fine,” Violet answered again. Even though she felt herself relaxing, she still just wanted to get this over with.
Sara nodded. “I’m a former FBI agent who now acts as a consultant for them. Occasionally with other agencies as well. I’m what they call a profiler, a forensic psychologist. Which basically means that I try to get inside the bad guy’s head. In this particular case, I was called in almost immediately to help track down the abductor, the man who had taken the little boy you . . . discovered.” She crossed the word quickly and kept talking. “It’s my job to figure out what kind of person would do something like this—and why. And, hopefully, to prevent it from happening again.”
Violet was confused. She understood the words, but there was something she didn’t understand, something important. And she didn’t think it was something she could just overlook. “So you don’t actually work for the FBI?”
Sara Priest shook her head. “Not always. Right now I do, at least for the moment. But sometimes it’s the Seattle PD or another police department. On rare occasions, I even work for private investigators or attorneys. But mostly it’s the FBI.”
Violet wasn’t sure what this meant, but somehow it seemed significant. Sara Priest wasn’t an FBI agent. That changed everything, didn’t it? “So is that why you didn’t ask my parents’ permission to question me? Does that mean I didn’t have to come here in the first place?”
“Smart girl,” Sara praised her. “I half-expected you to show up with your uncle.” At Violet’s surprised look, she raised her eyebrows. “Yes, Violet, I did my homework. I know your uncle is the chief of police. But here’s the deal: I’m only questioning you; you’re not a suspect in a crime. And you’re here of your own volition. I only asked you to come. Although rather strenuously, I’ll admit.”
“And if I want to leave?”
Sara Priest remained unruffled by the threat. “I hope you won’t. I hope you’ll at least hear me out.”
Violet still wasn’t sure, but she was already there, and a part of her wanted to know where she’d slipped up, what she’d done to arouse suspicion about her ability.
She shrugged. “Fine, I guess. But can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you ask about my friend Mike Russo that day in the parking lot?”
Sara didn’t hesitate, and she didn’t need further reminding; she knew what Violet was talking about. “I thought I recognized him. From a case I worked about two years ago, while I was still with the Bureau. I had to look it up when I got back, but I was right. It was him.”
Violet leaned forward, her interest secured. “What case?”
“Has Mike mentioned anything . . . about his mother . . . ?”
Violet shook her head.
“Sad, really. Your friend looks different now—older—but I’ll never forget him. Just over two years ago, his mother went missing.” She frowned, as if the memory was still fresh. “The husband was a mess. He just kind of fell apart after his wife disappeared, poor guy. And those kids . . .” She sighed. “I was surprised to see that they’d moved back to the area. If I were him, I’d want to stay as far away as possible.”
“And you never found her?” Violet was sure she already knew the answer. She remembered Chelsea saying that Mike and Megan lived with their father; she never mentioned their mom.
Sara confirmed her doubts. “No. There was a brief investigation, but the husband always believed she just took off. He said she was under a lot of pressure and he didn’t think she could cope anymore. I was never completely convinced, though. There was an abusive ex-husband who was still in the picture, showing up at her work, trying to get her back, even all those years after their divorce. I could never get a good read on him, but in the end there wasn’t enough evidence, so we could never charge him.”
“What did Mike and his sister think?”
Sara shrugged, pursing her lips. “Nothing, as far as I know. They were just kids; there was never a reason to involve them, especially since the investigation into the ex was going nowhere. I questioned them briefly, but I doubt they ever knew I suspected foul play.” She glanced at Violet. “Still, I wish I knew for sure.”
That crawly feeling was back, the sensation that Sara was asking for some sort of admission from Violet, and Violet felt herself withdrawing, pulling a
way. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet anyway.
Sara must have realized, and she quickly changed the subject. “As I was saying before, sometimes, as part of my job, I run across people who call in tips for various reasons. Usually these leads go nowhere; people see what they want to see. Mostly they just want to be helpful, but in the process a lot of manpower gets wasted. But your tip proved to be very valuable.” Sara nodded to Violet. “Thank you, by the way. Sometimes the not knowing is the hardest part for families. You gave that boy’s family the closure they deserved.”
Violet remained silent.
“I know you don’t trust me, and that’s okay. I haven’t given you any reason to, and I apologize for that. But my motivations for tracking you down, for trying to talk to you, are good ones.” She leaned forward again; her eyes were eagle sharp now, and she had Violet in her sights.
“I work with certain people, Violet. People with unusual . . . talents, you might say. Unconventional aptitudes that might be considered by some to be extreme, maybe even peculiar. Some of my colleagues think it’s a bunch of crap, but I’ve seen it work. I’ve seen these people in action.” She waited a moment before continuing. “I could understand if someone with an alternative way of viewing the world might want to keep that to herself, for whatever reasons. Reasons maybe only she understands.”
The soft click of the door interrupted them, and Violet was grateful for the intrusion. Her fists were balled tightly in her lap, her palms sweating.
She didn’t know why, but she was surprised when she saw who was there.
Rafe poked his head inside as he spoke quietly to Sara. “We’re ready whenever you are.” If Violet thought he’d seemed out of place on the campus of her school, it was nothing compared to how odd he appeared in the starched world of the FBI field offices.
“Give us a minute,” Sara responded, and a silent look passed between them, leaving Violet with the impression that they understood each other easily, with very few words.