Sara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Violet knew even if Sara refused to admit it.
Violet had expected to feel relief; she’d already known that unburdening herself, at least to Sara, would make her feel better. But what she hadn’t counted on was that she would feel so . . . alive.
She tingled with a new sense of purpose. And even though she hadn’t officially accepted Sara’s invitation to join their group, Violet knew that, in a way, she already had.
She still didn’t understand exactly what it was that Sara’s team did, or how they operated, but after witnessing Sara in action that night at the cabin, Violet knew that Sara definitely had influence with the authorities. She’d witnessed Sara giving orders to the local sheriff’s office and had watched her interacting with the FBI agents who had later arrived on the scene.
Even if she didn’t actually work for the FBI, Sara Priest had proven that she was a force to be reckoned with.
And, more importantly, Violet knew she could count on Sara, could trust her. That was a lot for Violet.
As far as Mike and Megan, they were already gone. They’d moved to Oregon to live with an aunt who’d offered to take them in.
Megan had admitted to everything. She’d admitted that she’d hated Violet at first, that she was jealous, and had wanted to frighten her. She confessed to leaving her dead cat at Violet’s house as a message. She confessed to the note and the phone calls as well.
Violet had reached out and forgiven Megan, knowing that the younger girl had already suffered enough, from years of living with an alcoholic father and then discovering that he’d murdered her mother.
Megan would need a lot of therapy to undo the damage her father had done, and Sara assured Violet that they would do everything they could to get her the help she needed.
Mike, on the other hand, admitted to nothing.
And although no one could dispute his story, that his father had wrestled the gun from his hands to take his own life, Violet suspected something else, something more disturbing. She couldn’t help remembering the way Mike’s father had begged Mike to end his life, to let him die, and she wondered if Mike hadn’t just agreed, offering his father an alternative to prison.
And Violet wasn’t sure she blamed him if he had. She wasn’t sure that his father didn’t, in some way, deserve what he’d gotten, and that Mike and Megan didn’t deserve the peace of knowing that they would never have to face their father again.
She honestly didn’t know. . . .
As Violet gathered her things, Sara asked her to call later.
Violet nodded, for the first time agreeing, and she wondered again how she would fit into their group.
In the hallway, Rafe stood waiting for them. Waiting for Violet.
He held out his hand to her, and in it Violet saw the folded pink note that she’d given to Sara when she’d asked for her help. She looked at it curiously.
“Here.” He spoke in the quiet voice she’d grown accustomed to. It seemed to suit his brooding nature. “I don’t need this anymore.”
Violet tentatively reached out her hand to take it from him, her mind speculating as to why he’d had it in the first place. She’d spent plenty of time wondering about his role in the group, so how did the note fit in?
Her fingertips brushed against his and, not for the first time, she felt that tremor of something pass through her, something electric.
He pulled his hand away quickly but glanced up at her, meeting her gaze.
Violet smiled at him unsurely. “Hey, I want to thank you. You know, for bringing help that night. I owe you one.” She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t wait for a response. But as she started to walk away, leaving him standing there in the hallway, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile knowingly.
Violet didn’t need an explanation as to how he’d known she was in trouble, just as she didn’t want to go around explaining to others what she could do.
It was enough to know that they were a part of something else now.
Together.
“That was fast,” Jay said as Violet got into the car.
“I told you I wouldn’t be long.”
“Good, ’cause I think we’re gonna be late,” he answered, glancing at the clock on his dash.
Violet sighed. “Is this about the party?”
“I already told you: There is no party.” And then he grinned at her. “Besides, if you don’t act surprised, Chelsea’s going to kill me.”
“Ugh! I hate parties.”
Jay reached over and slipped his hand around the back of Violet’s neck, pulling her toward him. She could smell the mint he’d been chewing on as she leaned into him.
“Come on. None of them got to celebrate your birthday with you.” He kissed her once, softly, sweetly, on her cheek. “Let them have their little party; it won’t last long.” He kissed her other cheek and then her chin, and Violet felt her resolve slipping.
“We’ll be out of there in no time.” His lips brushed her forehead; his eyes smoldered as he gazed down at her. “And then afterward”—he found her lips, lightly teasing her—“we can have our own party.”
Violet sighed in defeat, losing herself to his very persuasive argument.
“I think we’re gonna be late,” she whispered, surrendering at last.