Violet wasn’t sure what to think. She pulled her hand away from Sara’s and traced her fingertip around the rim of her coffee cup. Part of her wanted to walk away, to leave the team and all its secrets. She didn’t know if she wanted to be part of a group that couldn’t be honest with one another about the simplest things, like relationships and living arrangements. How could she trust them with her secrets if they didn’t trust her with theirs?

But she knew she was being dramatic. She knew she could trust them because she already had. They’d already saved her life once.

“So, how’d you guys end up here?” she asked at last, wanting to hear the rest of the story.

“At the Center?” When Violet nodded, Sara pursed her lips. “Shortly after Gemma came to live with us, I went to my superiors and asked about creating a new unit.” She grinned at Violet. “Kind of a psychic detective division.”

Despite herself, Violet grinned back at her. Out loud, it sounded ludicrous, even though that was exactly what the team was.

“I was denied, of course,” Sara went on. “At least officially. But, later, I was approached by a director—someone much higher than me—about working on my own, outside the restrictions of the FBI. He knew of an organization that was interested in what we could do, and they were willing to give me the freedom I needed to run my own team. They even provided the financial backing for the Center. In return, they occasionally send us cases that require the utmost discretion. Sometimes it’s something as simple as a background check on an employee or a colleague. Sometimes it’s working with law firms or the district attorney. And sometimes, they ask us to investigate something more . . . serious. As long as they don’t ask us to do anything illegal, I don’t mind the arrangement; it frees us up to work on the cases we choose to work, the ones where I feel all of your skills are used best.”

Violet had speculated about the high-tech facility and how a team of psychics who helped solve crimes for law enforcement agencies could afford such a luxurious space.

She’d even felt strange taking money from Sara, even though Sara had insisted it was her job now and she should be compensated. Still, it was weird collecting a paycheck for something she had no real control over.

But now it made sense to her. There was someone else, some outside entity—an entity with a lot of money, apparently—backing them. In exchange for sharing their abilities.

Violet was suddenly grateful that her ability didn’t involve reading people’s thoughts or emotions, the way Gemma’s did. The idea of spying on someone’s most private feelings was sort of repulsive.

Then again, she chided herself, she was the girl who was drawn to the dead. Repulsive was relative, she supposed.

But it made her feel better knowing she’d probably never have to answer to the people with the big checkbooks. She was more comfortable with bodies.

Sara’s phone rang and she pulled it out to check it. She frowned at the display. “Sorry, Violet, it’s one of the detectives working the collector case; I need to take this.” She scooted back from the table and left Violet alone in the kitchen.

Violet decided this was as good a time as any to go. She dumped her coffee in the sink, offering a quick wave to Sara, who was sitting at her desk now, listening intently to the detective on the other end, before she slipped out the door.

Chapter 15

SHE KNEW THE MOMENT SHE REACHED THE BOTTOM of the steps outside the outer door that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t what Sara told her that bothered Violet, she realized as her heart began to beat too hard—too fast. It felt like she was trying to breathe through sand, the air was suddenly dry and coarse. This was something else altogether.

She wasn’t alone.

She took a step backward, the heels of her shoes bumping against the bottom step. She felt trapped. She wanted to race back up the stairs, to see if—by some miracle—the door hadn’t locked behind her. But she knew that it had; she’d heard the telltale click. And her keycard would do her no good; it was already lost in the cluttered depths of her skull-and-crossbones purse.

She scanned the parking lot, searching the road and every crevice, nook, and alleyway she could see between the buildings around her. Everything appeared to be deserted.

Yet the hair standing up on the back of her neck told her otherwise. And it wasn’t just the hairs that warned her; it was the presence of an echo—or rather, echoes—that confirmed her suspicions. The haunting imprints that raked every inch of her skin, piercing her outward calm as she stood there, trying to decide what to do next.

She clutched her cell phone in one hand and gauged the distance to her car. Those keys, at least, were already in her other hand. She held them tightly, not wanting to lose track of them. But even as she squeezed them, allowing them to give her a false sense of comfort, she worried she was too far away. Or rather, that the person carrying the imprints was too close.

Still, she had to do something. She couldn’t just stand there, waiting for something to happen.

In the distance, she heard the loud bass of music bumping, and she thought maybe a car was coming. But after a moment, the sound faded, and she realized it was heading in the opposite direction.

She had one chance, she finally decided, one chance to make it to safety. If only she could make it there in time.

She turned quickly, not wanting to second-guess her plan as she raced back up the steps. Time seemed to slow to a blur and from somewhere behind her, she felt, and heard, the rush of echoes moving closer . . . closer . . . closer.