“So you lied to them? Didn’t really figure you for a liar.”

“Funny. I didn’t lie, exactly; it’s just not a school project. And who wears watches anymore?” she shot back, eyeballing the thick leather studded watchband on his wrist. “Isn’t that what cell phones are for?”

“Yeah? Then what time is it, V?”

Ignoring the jab, Violet reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him before they made it to the building. Despite her bravado, her heart was hammering harder now. “Wait. What do you know about this guy? Did Sara tell you anything?”

Rafe shifted suddenly, and she realized he looked just as anxious as she felt. She wondered how she hadn’t noticed that before. Swallowing, he said, “Gangbanger. Drug dealer. Pimp. Take your pick, apparently this guy does it all. He was picked up yesterday after a domestic violence call. When the cops got there, they found his girlfriend and their two little kids dead. Slaughtered. He claims it was some kind of retaliation thing—rival gang stuff. But they think he’s lying.” His eyes dropped to his feet and his hands were clenched into fists.

Violet thought about the boy she’d seen yesterday, and her throat tightened. “How—how old is he?”

“Eighteen,” Rafe said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

She winced. That was only a year older than she was. “They were his kids? And they think he killed them?”

Shrugging, he kept his gaze down. “That’s what Sara said.”

Violet hadn’t seen Rafe looking this uneasy since they’d first met, and she wondered if he was worried about the same things she was.

She thought about the things Rafe had just told her, and about seeing the boy again, someone capable of harming—killing—his own children. She felt sick. She considered refusing, at least this time. About making up an excuse that she had too much to do: homework or chores. Something. Anything.

But Rafe glanced up at her then, his voice barely a whisper. “Come inside, V. See if you can help nail this guy.”

Goose bumps stood up from the tips of her fingertips all the way to her toes, and Violet rubbed her arms. She stared back at him speechlessly, her brow furrowed with worry. Finally, after a long moment, she held her breath and nodded.

Rafe sighed, his stance visibly relaxing. “Let’s go. Sara’s waiting.”

She wondered what had gotten into him all of a sudden. This wasn’t the Rafe she knew, nervous and fidgety and unsure. She wondered if this case had somehow struck a nerve with him. It certainly had for her.

She had the feeling she wasn’t going to like what she found in there.

Once inside, Sara got them checked in and through security quickly. The three of them were escorted by an armed officer who chatted with Sara about the specifics of the case. Violet was grateful that the man was “clean” of imprints, since it would make it easier to discern the ones coming from the boy. It was also easier for Violet to be around him.

“James Nua. Three domestic violence calls in the past month alone. There was a restraining order in place,” Violet heard the officer telling Sara. “His record goes all the way back to when he was thirteen. Breaking and entering, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, possession, possession with intent to distribute . . .” He continued to tick off the offenses that had been leveled against James Nua, and that feeling of restlessness persisted, setting Violet’s teeth on edge.

Beside her, Rafe remained fidgety.

When they stopped, Violet glanced at the black door with a rectangular wire-enmeshed window set vertically in the top. It looked like it was made from steel, or something equally solid, but it had pit marks and scars as if its strength had been tested . . . repeatedly. Violet stood as far from the door as she could manage in the narrow hallway, her eyes avoiding the small window at the top.

He was in there. Even from out here she could sense James Nua . . . and his imprints.

“We’re going in here,” Sara indicated, pointing to a different door, and Violet followed, suddenly hoping she’d be able to tell them something useful.

“Are you ready for this?” Sara asked, turning to look over her shoulder.

Violet was about to say, “Yes,” when she realized that Sara wasn’t talking to her. It was Rafe she spoke to now. Rafe, whose silent, brooding stare fixated on the white-flecked tiles of the floor beneath him. He didn’t answer.

“Rafe?” she repeated, and when he glanced her way, she asked again. “Are you sure you can do this?”

He lifted his shoulder, not quite a shrug, not really a response at all, and he pushed his jet-black hair out of his eyes. “Of course.”

But from where she stood, Sara didn’t hear what Violet had, the hitch in his throat. The officer opened the door, and Violet stayed back, trailing in behind Sara and Rafe, not sure she was ready either. She felt a chill the moment she walked through the doorway, one that had nothing at all to do with imprints.

She was about to come face-to-face with a child killer.

At the sound of the door closing, the click, Violet forced her gaze up, focusing on the window before her. She took a step closer, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t alone as she looked through the glass to the room beyond it. Even though he couldn’t see her, even though he was in an entirely different room, Violet released a grateful sigh that Nua was handcuffed to the metal table he sat in front of . . . and that the table was bolted to the floor beneath him. Even his feet had been restrained.