Already they were stiff and cold.
It was too bad she was so fragile, he thought, as he drew back and glanced into her wide, glassy, unblinking eyes. She could have been perfect. She could have been the one.
Chapter 14
VIOLET HATED THAT SHE’D SPENT SO MUCH TIME standing in front of the mirror the next morning. She’d thrown on jeans and a T-shirt and then, second-guessing her choice, had changed out of the worn athletic T-shirt and slipped on a fitted top with tiny white buttons over a lace-trimmed tank top. She wondered why it mattered. Why she even cared what she looked like all of a sudden. She was only visiting Rafe, after all.
When she caught herself daubing gloss on her lips, she changed her mind again, berating herself as she ripped at the buttons on her shirt. “Stupid Rafe . . . always messing with my head . . .” Tossing the top on the floor, she snagged a zip-front hoodie off a hanger in the closet, causing it to swing violently on the wooden dowel. “I shouldn’t even go see him. If he hadn’t been riding that stupid bike in the first place . . .” She slipped her jacket on and yanked the zipper all the way up to her chin before checking herself in the mirror. She’d left her hair loose, letting it fall in curling cascades around her shoulders. It looked wild and tempestuous, matching the fevered expression in her emerald eyes. “Perfect,” she announced to her reflection as she picked up a piece of tissue and wiped her lips clean once more.
At the last minute, she slipped a long chain around her neck and rubbed the stone, the way she’d seen Krystal do with her own necklaces. Black onyx, Krystal had told her, that’s what the stone was called. It was a meditative stone, used for protection, sort of like an energy shield.
Violet didn’t feel any different, didn’t feel “shielded,” but she liked having the stone, even if it was only because her friend had given it to her.
Her mom had stopped her before she’d made it out the front door. “He’s going to be okay?” Her voice sounded weary, and Violet knew she shouldn’t have been surprised that Sara had already called.
Violet kept her fingers on the doorknob, unsure why she was suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s what they said. They did an MRI and took some X-rays, but when I left they were releasing him to go home. He’ll probably have to take it easy for a while.”
“He’s lucky,” she said. “Ask your uncle Stephen, those things are dangerous.” The way she said “those things” made it sound more like Rafe had been trying to ride a rabid bull than a legal motor vehicle.
But Violet had been hearing the same speech since she was a little girl. Ever since she’d made the mistake of telling her mom she wanted to join a biker gang. She was seven at the time, and didn’t have the guts to tell her parents that the real reason had nothing at all to do with riding motorcycles; she just wanted to be able to say she was a “Hell’s Angel.”
“I know, I know,” Violet insisted, lifting her hands in surrender. “I think that video Uncle Stephen made me watch—what was it called, Death on the Highway?—was enough to scare any kid into driving like a grandmother.”
The sliver of a smile found her mother’s lips. “Tell him I hope he feels better, ’kay, Vi?”
Violet smiled back before ducking out the door, anxious to get out of there, to not be talking about traffic safety with her mother. To not be talking about Rafe.
She hadn’t planned on stopping at the Center, but since it was on her way, and because she was feeling uncertain about going to Rafe’s, she found herself pulling into the small lot despite herself.
Most of the businesses in the warehouse district were closed, lending it a strange, remote feel that it didn’t have during the busy workweek. Since it was a Sunday, Violet hadn’t expected to see any cars in the lot, least of all Sara’s, so she was surprised to find the imposing SUV parked in front.
She turned off the ignition of her battered old Honda as she dug her keycard out of her purse and hurried up the steps of the building.
Inside everything was quiet and dark. All the hallway lights leading to the inner door of the Center had been turned off and there was a disquieting sort of calm to it. There were no sounds, nothing to indicate that anyone else was inside the building, and Violet hesitated at the second secured entrance, her keycard poised above the black magnetic pad. When she’d been issued the security card, Sara had insisted that the Center was available to her any time she needed it, that she was free to come and go as she pleased.
Violet swiped the plastic card in front of the reader and when the green light flashed, she leaned against the door, shoving through it.
“Sara?” Violet called out, but no one answered, and Violet wondered if Sara was actually around after all.
The phone in her pocket vibrated and Violet ignored it. It was probably just her friends again, wondering where she was and why she was avoiding them. Guilt stabbed at her.
She slipped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a soda before wandering to Sara’s workspace, the only place that could actually be considered a real office in the Center, even though there wasn’t a real door to keep anyone out. Sara’s computer was on, and the screen saver changed, a slideshow of landscape images that looked like framed photographs. There was nothing personal about the photos; Violet had seen these snapshots before. They were preprogrammed and had come with the operating system.
Violet tried again, letting her fingers graze over the top of the polished desktop, as smooth and unmarred as Sara herself—everything in its place. She bumped the mouse and the screen saver vanished, and Violet found herself staring at the desktop of Sara’s computer.