Heat was this person’s echo.

“That’s not the right one,” the tech explained, his voice thick with criticism.

For an endless moment there was silence, and then Violet answered, “I know. But I hope you’re looking into this person’s death too.” She stood back. She didn’t have to be told that the body of James Nua’s girlfriend wasn’t behind that particular door, or that it didn’t belong to one of his children. She knew because she’d already sensed their echoes . . . the moment she’d stepped into the room.

They were here. And Nua had killed them.

She stepped to her left and pressed her hand against another of the doors. “This is one of them,” she said as the strange choral whispers filled her ears, echoing within her own head. Then she moved again, brushing her fingertips over the silver door just to the right of it. The distinct taste of candied apples was there too. “And this one.”

And then she found the last one, that strange chill that she hadn’t been able to distinguish as real or imprint when she’d been in James’s presence. It was here too, clinging to the life he’d extinguished. She held her hand over yet another steel door and nodded, looking at Sara, and only Sara.

She had no idea who the slithering tattoos had belonged to. She had no doubt that killing came easily to a boy like James Nua.

Violet stepped back, this time reaching for Sara and finding the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m ready to go,” she said softly, reverently.

She could see Rafe too, a gold chain wrapped around his hand as his thumb feverishly stroked a simple cross. James Nua’s cross, Violet was certain of it. Sara had given Rafe one of Nua’s personal effects, hoping that he might be able to pick up on something about the young killer.

Once they were in the parking garage again, away from the cloying overload of echoes from the dead, Violet sighed, trying to find her way from beneath the suffocating burden of those who were unsettled. She climbed into the SUV and strapped her seat belt around her. She barely realized when Rafe climbed in beside her instead of sitting in the front seat with Sara. She felt robotic, like she was just going through the motions of everyday life.

At last she said the words that struggled to find their way to the surface. “I’m just so tired.” She let her head fall against Rafe’s shoulder, and his arm slipped around her. The musky scent of his skin was mingled with deodorant and leather. “I need to go home now.”

Intimacy

SHE WAS SLEEPING. HE FELT BAD WAKING HER, and he hoped not to, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. It was dark and he couldn’t bear to be alone.

Instead of the candle, he used a small penlight. The bulb was nearly microscopic and the light was dimmer than a candle’s flame, yet he found his way to her bedside without stumbling, even over his heavy clodhopper feet.

His face dropped, and his eyes moved downward as his cheeks burned with humiliation. Clodhopper. What a terrible word. What an awful thing to tell a child. He flashed the penlight’s glow over the top of his shoes, not wanting to look, but unable to do anything else. They weren’t so big, he thought. They weren’t awkward or unwieldy. They were just normal feet, he assured himself. Just average, ordinary feet. There was nothing special about them.

Yet, he was angry for the shame he felt . . . that he could still be embarrassed in that way, even in the privacy of his own grown-up thoughts. His mother wasn’t here, he reminded himself. She couldn’t hurt him . . . she could no longer humiliate him.

He pursed his lips, bitter now instead of afraid, and wondered if this was really the best time to see his girl again. None of this was her fault, after all, and facing her when he was in one of his moods wouldn’t do either of them any good. It never did.

But the idea of going back to bed, upstairs all by himself, made the acids in his stomach churn violently. He closed his eyes, trying to think clearly.

At last, he lifted the penlight and flicked it across the peaceful plains of her face, checking to see if she was still asleep. Her eyes were closed, her lids still, motionless. A dreamless sleep.

That’s usually how it was after they’d eaten one of his “special” meals. He felt better knowing they would sleep peacefully, that waking wasn’t an option.

He lifted a finger to his mouth to chew on the ragged edge of his fingernail, and then he remembered what a disgusting habit that was and dropped his hand away guiltily. He let the glow of the penlight move down over the blanket, finding the girl’s limp hand in the darkness, as he studied her long, lovely fingers.

He felt himself relax when he saw the color, the shimmering lilac he’d painted on her fingernails.

She had beautiful hands. Clean and pretty and soft.

He wanted to be near her. He didn’t want to be alone, not tonight.

He crept closer, hesitating as he reached the side of her bed, and he listened to the long, stretched out sounds of her sleep. Such a peaceful sound. Such a soothing sound.

The bedsprings creaked as the weight of the bed shifted. There was plenty of room for him, and he slid beneath the covers easily. He curled himself around her, finding her warmth and letting it surround him, lull him. Yet she never flinched, never moved.

She was ready for him, waiting for him.

Chapter 9

VIOLET STARED OUT HER BEDROOM WINDOW AT a black sky punctuated by a million effervescent white lights. She was trying to decide if it was too late to go to sleep or too early to be up. From where she stood, looking out, everything was so peaceful. Calm. Yet inside of her, a war waged, and sleep was overruled by torment.