She tried to brush past him, but he reached for her sleeve, stopping her. She knew she should jerk her arm back, away from his grip, but instead she let him draw her toward the exit doors at the end of the hallway. It was dark there, private.
He glared down at her, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Come on, Violet, this is serious.” Hearing her name on his lips made her pause, and suddenly he had her attention. “You can’t just ignore this and hope it goes away. Sara has a job to do, and she’s serious about it. And whether you like it or not, it involves you.”
“I’m not sure what I can tell her that she doesn’t already know,” Violet lied, taking a step back. There was so much that Sara didn’t know about her, and that Violet had no intention of confessing.
“The thing is, that’s really not for you to decide.” His face softened, just a little. “I promise it gets easier.” He moved closer to her. “You just need to learn to trust someone.”
A door nearby opened softly, like a whisper, but Violet didn’t look up. What was he trying to tell her? That he knew what it was like to be . . . different? Or that she should confide in him?
Violet was more confused than ever. “I really don’t have time for this. I’m here on a date.”
The boy frowned as he shoved his hair away from his eyes, and then he handed Violet another one of Sara’s business cards while he studied her. “Just call her, Violet. Please. You never know, maybe if you help Sara, she can help you.” And then he handed her something else, a slip of paper with a phone number and a name—Rafe—scrawled in ballpoint pen. “If you’re more comfortable, call me instead,” he explained, his eyes searching hers. “Believe me, I know how scary this can be.”
Violet shoved the card and the phone number into her pocket, not wanting to look at them or to consider the meaning behind his words. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know if Rafe truly understood her—or what it was exactly that he did for Sara Priest.
So when he turned to go, Violet stayed where she was, in the dim shadows of the doorway, and watched him leave.
She closed her eyes, wondering what exactly he thought Sara could do to help her. Several seconds passed before she opened them again, just to make sure he was really gone.
She glanced down the hallway and hesitated.
She wasn’t alone.
Jay stood there, examining her. Without saying a word.
Violet was unnerved by the accusation she saw in his gaze, and she wondered if it was real or if it was her own guilt she was sensing.
Finally, when Violet had lost track of how long they’d been standing there, he turned and went back inside without waiting for her.
She could feel the tears coming then. Shame and regret flooded her, burning beneath her skin, until she would have preferred the numbness to return.
She escaped to the bathroom once more to splash some water on her face—and to wash away some of the guilt she felt for keeping things from Jay.
Why couldn’t she talk to him?
Why was she keeping so many secrets?
Violet slipped into the shadows of the theater and searched for her friends. When she found them, she made her way to where they were sitting, squeezing past feet and knees and trying not to kick over popcorn or drinks.
Jay didn’t look up when she stepped over him and sat in the open seat.
But she was surprised, and relieved, when she felt his arm slip around her shoulder. She knew he was upset with her—she’d seen it on his face when they were in the hallway—so his unexpected touch was comforting, reassuring. It was so Jay.
He leaned in toward her ear, his voice barely a whisper. “You can’t keep hiding things forever. Eventually you have to tell me what the hell’s going on.”
Violet blinked away tears and nodded against his warm lips. He sat back and started watching the movie again.
On the other side of her, Chelsea and Mike were making out.
Chapter 12
Violet approached the police station hesitantly. She’d been there dozens, maybe hundreds of times before. Her uncle Stephen was the chief of police in Buckley, so it would have been a tough place for her to avoid. Still, her steps were sluggish.
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.