“Maggie.” Her dad’s voice was quiet, reasonable. “She said she’s fine.”

But Violet didn’t care that her dad was calm. She was too tired to pretend, too tired to act like today hadn’t been a strain. “I thought so too. It’s not like I didn’t try, but clearly, it didn’t work. Is that what you want to hear, that I’m too messed up to be fixed? I couldn’t help myself. I knew they were in there, and I told myself I should call for help, and I didn’t. You know why? Because some things can’t be fixed, that’s why.”

A single tear of frustration slid down Violet’s cheek as she glowered at her mom, angry at her for forcing her to say that everything wasn’t okay after all. For making her admit—out loud—that she really was broken.

“Vi.” The edge had left her mother’s voice, and now she just sounded . . . sorry.

“I’m going to my room,” Violet shot back before her mom had the chance to say anything else.

Violet wasn’t alone for long before she heard the slight tap at her door, right before it slid open. She didn’t look up from where she was thumbing through the pages of one of her grandmother’s journals, not really able to concentrate.

From the doorway, her mom sighed, but Violet kept her gaze fastened on the pages spread open on her lap. “I’m sorry, Vi. I didn’t mean—” There was a pause, and then without realizing her mom had bridged the gap between them, the bed beside Violet dipped and she felt her mother’s leg against hers, their shoulders brushing. “No, that’s not true. I meant to ask if you were okay. I can’t help it. I’m your mom. It’s what I do.”

She bumped Violet, and even though Violet wanted to stay mad—and she managed to keep her expression stern—inwardly, she cracked . . . just a little. She didn’t expect them not to care, and she supposed it was unfair to ask them not to worry either.

She just wanted them to stop acting like she was something fragile. Delicate.

“Aunt Kat called,” her mom told her, and she suddenly had Violet’s attention as her head snapped around to face her.

“What’d she say? Does she know anything? Has Uncle Stephen come home yet?”

Her mom was shaking her head before Violet had even finished asking. “She said he’s still out, but she wanted to make sure you were okay. She’s been getting calls from people who’ve heard about what happened. She said they’re asking if it’s true, that the bodies were found by a student from White River.”

At the mention of her high school, Violet stiffened. If word was already spreading, she wondered what else they knew. She wondered how much longer she’d be able to keep her name, and her ability, a secret.

Her mom tried to smile, but it was weak and uninspired. “Don’t worry,” she assured her. “They didn’t know who you were. And even if they did, they’d just assume you were there because of Uncle Stephen.” But then her expression became more serious, and Violet saw the worry she tried to mask. “So can I at least ask why you were there, Vi? Who are . . . Who were they?” she corrected herself.

Violet just shook her head. “I—I don’t know who they were. I didn’t mean to find them. I just . . . I followed . . . well, you know . . .”

Her mom nodded. Of course she knew. “Was it . . . ? Was it as bad as Aunt Kat said it was?”

Violet shrugged, not sure how much detail her mom really wanted. Or how much she could handle, for that matter. Her mother wasn’t like her. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing bodies, and even those of the animals Violet used to carry home when she was little had made her mom squeamish. “What did she say?”

There was a long silence, and then her mom said, “That they were slaughtered.”

Violet thought about that, the description. She imagined the scene she’d walked into, even as she tried to purge it from her mind. Slaughtered was a pretty accurate word. “Yeah, it was that bad. They were in their own home, Mom. Even the little boy . . .” She nodded, her focus distant. “It was really, really bad,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Sara Priest was there?” her mother asked, her words experimental now, as she tested the waters of their truce. “And Rafe?”

“I called him.” There was no point dancing around the truth.

“And were they able to help?” her mom continued to probe, as she tried to be casual about it. She rubbed at some charcoal residue on her fingers—a sure sign she’d been sketching that day. “Could they tell anything . . . about the family?”

Violet was cautious now. She had to be vague, even with her parents, about what the other team members could do. Discretion was the first rule of being part of the team. She shook her head. “Not yet. But I think there was an older daughter who wasn’t there . . . when they were killed.” Violet turned to face her mother. “And she and Grady Spencer know each other. Maybe even dated . . .”

Her mom stopped scraping at the black stains beneath the edges of her fingernails. “Grady Spencer?” she breathed, meeting Violet’s gaze now.

Violet nodded. “The one and only.”

“But you didn’t recognize her? She doesn’t go to your school?”

“I only saw a picture of her, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Uncle Stephen’s looking for Grady now. Maybe Grady knows where the girl is. Or maybe he can tell them something about her.” Behind her eyes, a throbbing pain pounded in time with her heart. “Do you mind if I lay down for a little bit?” She closed the journal and set it on her nightstand. “I’d kinda like to be alone for a while.”