She listened to the darkness, to the nighttime sounds that surrounded her: the furnace blowing air through the vents, the occasional creak of her house, a dog barking in the distance . . . too far away to be bothersome to anyone but those who were already awake. She knew it wasn’t any of those things that troubled her. She knew it was James Nua’s family—his girlfriend and their children, lying dead in the morgue, miles away—who kept her awake.

She’d tried to slow her breathing, to concentrate on finding that inner calm Dr. Lee had taught her to draw upon. But tonight, for some reason, inner calm was hard to come by, and Violet found herself struggling with the weight of the echoes cloaking her in a mantle of sorrow and despair. She hoped the bodies would be buried soon, hoped they would find peace at last.

Frustrated, Violet sighed and shoved away from the windowsill. She felt sluggish, as though she were wading through gelatin, gummy and sticky, while it sucked at her, dragging her down. Every movement felt slow and strained.

She wandered to her chest of drawers and pulled the top one open, peeling back a layer of clothing she’d used to conceal the pill bottle Dr. Lee had given her. She picked it up and jiggled it, letting the white capsules rattle together, like tiny graveyard bones picked bare.

Violet smiled; death was definitely on her mind tonight.

Everything would be so much easier if she’d just take one of the chalky pills. Maybe she’d sleep then. Maybe she’d feel some peace at last, even if it was only temporary.

The idea had definite merit.

But she sighed once more as she closed her eyes and let the bottle fall from her fingers. She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to even open the stupid bottle.

Yet here she was, sapped, a bone-deep kind of exhaustion that made her legs feel like rubber as she listlessly closed the drawer again.

She blinked, her eyes feeling gritty, abraded by her own eyelids as she shuffled back to her bed. She would keep trying. She refused to let the echoes consume her.

She collapsed heavily onto her bed and punched her pillow before rolling over. When the phone on her nightstand rang, she was reaching for it, checking the caller ID, and pressing Talk before the first ring had ended. It was one thing to have the home phone in her bedroom, a poor substitute for the cell phone that had been taken away from her; it was another to have it wake her parents in the middle of the night.

Violet glanced at the clock on her nightstand. 1:57. “What are you doing, calling so late?” She glared into the darkness, hating how easily her curiosity was pricked.

Rafe’s voice was low and gravelly on the other end. “How come you can’t just say hello? You give off kind of a hostile vibe, you know that?”

She curled her hand around her mouth, not wanting to wake her parents as she whispered frustratedly. “I wouldn’t if you’d call at a decent hour. You could have woken me.”

“Could have?” She could practically see the smug look on his face as he pointed out her poor word choice.

“Well . . . you know . . . I was just . . .” She faltered, and then shrugged as she gave up, sitting up and crossing her legs in front of her. She balanced her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palm. “I was having a hard time sleeping, that’s all. But you didn’t know that. I should have been asleep.”

The silence dragged between them as Violet leaned forward, waiting for him to get to the point. And when he did, his tone was somber. “Another girl’s been taken, V.” He paused, and his voice grew thick. “Sara thinks it was the collector.”

Violet’s head cleared instantaneously, her mind reeling with a hundred unanswered questions. “When? How? What makes her think it was him—”

Rafe seemed to know what she was going to ask even before she’d finished asking. “Nothing in particular. The girl was reported missing by her roommate, said she didn’t come home after work.”

“And that was strange?”

“Cops didn’t think so. They assumed she went out with friends. Figured she was a big girl and didn’t need to check in with her roommate. No one took it seriously at first.”

“So why does Sara—”

“Krystal,” Rafe stated flatly, cutting Violet off again.

Violet thought about that, and wondered what Krystal had told Sara exactly. “She knew?” was all she asked.

Rafe didn’t answer the question directly. “Sara made a call and told the detectives what she suspected. She talked them into checking out the lead, and apparently, when they went to the girl’s house, they found what Krystal said would be there. He’d dropped something . . . it was under her bed.”

Violet’s eyes widened, her heart pounding. “What was it?”

“It was a piece of jewelry. A ring. It was Antonia Cornett’s. It was reported missing from her belongings.”

Violet gasped, covering her mouth, not wanting to wake her parents. “Did Krystal say how she knew it would be there?”

There was another pause, and then Rafe answered her. “A girl spoke to her in her sleep. She thinks it might have been Antonia, but since it was just a voice, she can’t be sure.”

Violet’s blood turned to ice at the mention of the girl’s name, a ghost now, and she reached for her blanket, pulling it up to her chin. “She . . . she spoke to Krystal?” But Violet already knew the answer. Isn’t that what Krystal said, that the dead talked to her? “What’s her name, the missing girl? Do you know who she is?”