Dead Silence A Body Finder Novel - By Kimberly Derting Page 0,1
were simply part and parcel of those who were taken away from this world too soon. She understood that those who were killed carried an echo, and that whoever was responsible for their deaths would carry his or her own matching imprint. End of story.
Except that now, Violet had her own imprint. And it was all she could think about. It was like she had become trapped in her own personal hell.
Because now she was a killer too. And in becoming a killer, she was now encumbered with a burden almost too great to bear.
Violet hated the song that echoed around, and above, her. Hated this particular echo of the dead like she’d never hated any other before.
Not because it wasn’t beautiful or melodious or catchy. But because it was unending. A constant reminder of what she’d done.
You’re a killer . . .
You’re a killer . . .
You’re a killer . . .
It never stopped.
She reached for her iPod and cranked up the volume until she was certain that everyone in the house could hear the music that erupted from the earbuds. She cringed against the metallic grate that meant she’d already turned it up way too high, and that the tiny internal speakers were threatening to blow. Only then did she press the button, letting the music fade . . . but only slightly.
She wanted to sleep. Wanted it so badly that her eyes burned and her head throbbed. But she knew it wasn’t coming . . . not easily. Not this night.
There was a way though. Not one she liked, or even wanted to give in to. But there was a way.
Throwing back her covers, Violet jerked clumsily, getting out of bed and crossing her room. She kept her headphones on as she grabbed her purse from the dresser and dropped back onto her bed. Like the imprint, the purse was new, as was her cell phone and the alarm system for their house, all reminders of what had happened to her. She squeezed the stiff canvas between her fingers as she peeled the top wide, peeking inside.
It was in there—the bottle—and she reached for it tentatively.
Inside the brown plastic container, she could see one last pill, and she opened the top, letting the chalky capsule drop into her palm. Letting the weight of it sink in.
She hated how badly she needed it. And she hated that there was only this one remaining.
It meant she’d have to ask Dr. Lee for more.
The very thought made her shudder. It didn’t matter to Violet that she’d been forced to see him on a weekly basis. During those visits she did her best to ask for nothing, and she offered less. She sat stiffly in his office, answering his questions as basically as was humanly possible.
He’d backed her into a corner by making it more than clear that her resignation from the team had been denied.
Not typical psychiatrist behavior, Violet thought—not that she’d had a lot of experience with psychiatrists—but she could only assume that they normally didn’t threaten bodily harm to their patients’ families.
At first she hadn’t trusted any of them. Not Sara or Rafe, or even Krystal, Sam, or Gemma. She blamed them all . . . for everything. For Caine. For Dr. Lee.
For the nightmares and the imprint that kept her awake night after night.
That didn’t last long, though, because she knew it wasn’t their fault. Caine hadn’t found her because of them. He’d found her because of her . . . because of what she could do. She’d wanted to be useful then, wanted to help stop killers like Caine.
And if she was being honest, she still wanted that. She just didn’t want to be told she had no choice in the matter. But that wasn’t her team’s fault . . . at least not Rafe and the others. Sara, she still didn’t know about, not really. She couldn’t imagine a world in which Sara would force something like that on her.
Not the Sara she knew. Not the Sara who’d saved Violet’s life, and now bore a frigid imprint of her own to prove it.
So for now, she blamed Dr. Lee. She kept her appointments with him, and she took the pills he offered her, but she gave him nothing in return. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d grow bored by her insipidness, tired of hearing the tedium of her day-to-day life.
Maybe he’d become irritated with her and finally reveal his true intentions.