Violet nearly choked on her coffee. “No,” she gasped, trying to talk as she struggled around her coughing fit. “You’re wrong. He doesn’t really like me, either. I think he just puts up with me, maybe because he saved my life and I’m indebted to him or something. Maybe he wants to make sure I pay him back.” She smiled wanly at the boy across from her, trying to convince him.

But he shook his head vehemently. “Then you’re blind. Or maybe it’s just ’cause you didn’t know him before you came on the team. He’s better now than he was then. Like, he’s a kinder, gentler Rafe . . . even though he’s still pretty foul most of the time.

“But before you were here, no one could even talk to him. He glared all the time. And God forbid someone tried to make nice and start a conversation.” Violet got the feeling Sam was talking about himself now as she listened, dazed. “He’d just bite their head off and storm away. He didn’t want anyone to like him. Sara was the only one he was actually nice to.”

Violet’s mind was churning. She thought about the things Krystal had told her, about no one liking Rafe, but it was hard to imagine he’d ever been so . . . so difficult. That wasn’t the Rafe she knew. Sure, he was walled off. And sarcastic, and even quick-tempered. But he was also sensitive and considerate. She knew because she’d seen that side of him.

She opened her mouth to say something, but words failed her, and she closed it again. She had no idea what she could possibly say to Sam. She was embarrassed, and she hoped he was wrong. She didn’t want to be the reason Rafe was different. She didn’t want to be the cause of a kinder, gentler Rafe.

Because that would mean Jay might be right.

That maybe Rafe’s feelings were more than just friendly.

Fate

IT FELT GOOD TO GET OUT OF THERE, TO BE AWAY from her, even if the reprieve was only temporary. At least he could breathe again.

He walked his usual route, leaving his house and tracing his way around the university. He liked it there, all the old buildings swathed in vines and foliage. All the history and the architecture. All the places he could vanish, becoming whoever he wanted to be.

His frustration uncoiled a bit as he spied the familiar red awning of the café, even as he scolded himself for ending up here again. He stood back, not allowing himself to go any closer, not allowing himself to go inside. He knew it was a bad idea to come here, a place he’d been too many times before. It was breaking the rules.

He’d already broken them once, and look where that had gotten him.

He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to control his mounting rage as he pictured her . . . screaming. He needed to calm down. She needed him to calm down; it wouldn’t do either of them any good if he went back home while he was this angry.

But if he hadn’t been standing there, counting his breaths and trying to soothe himself, he might have missed her, the girl stepping out onto the sidewalk. She wasn’t his usual type; even from where he stood he could see that much. Her hair was wild and curly, not straight and silken. Her eyes, even though he couldn’t see the exact shade, were most definitely not dark, not the color of spiced cocoa or burnt mahogany. They didn’t warm him. They didn’t soothe him.

But there was something about her. Something that struck a chord in him. Something that made his head spin.

He reached for his phone, tucked deep in his pocket. He was careful with it, keeping his hand over the screen as he scrolled through the images he saved there, images meant only for his eyes.

He bit his lip when he found it, when he realized where he’d seen this girl before.

She’d been there, that day at the Pacific Storage warehouse when the police had arrived. He’d seen her in the parking lot as he’d stood in the crowd, making sure they found his ex-girlfriend, making sure his girl didn’t have to stay there in the dark . . . alone.

And here she was again, at the café—his café—standing silently, looking lost. Looking . . . lonely.

He didn’t know who she was, or why fate had intervened in this way, but when she started walking, he followed her, wondering the entire time what was wrong with him. He had a girlfriend, waiting for him . . . needing him.

He told himself it was nothing, less than nothing. She was just a girl. He was only watching her. It didn’t mean anything.

She stopped then at the newspaper machine, and just as she was poised to take her paper, she froze, every muscle in her body going rigid.

That was when he saw it. Fear.

He understood that.

He knew what it was like to be afraid. To be terrified and alone.

And he knew, too, that he needed to find out more about this girl. That he wasn’t going home just yet.

Chapter 11

VIOLET SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE STARING numbly at the paper plate in front of her. Her mom had saved her some pizza and Violet heated it up when she’d gotten home. It wasn’t late, but Violet felt like it was, and she was glad she’d told her friends she was staying home. She was too tired to do anything but stay in and feel sorry for herself.

Sighing, she pushed the half-eaten pizza away from her and reached for the newspaper she’d brought home with her. Normally she didn’t read the paper, but honestly, she had nothing better to do. It was Friday night and she was at home while everyone else—including Jay—had other plans.

She opened the first page because it seemed like the thing to do, the logical place to start. It didn’t take long, scanning the columns of newsprint, for Violet to realize that the news was generally pretty boring stuff. She skipped the articles on the first few pages about Antonia Cornett, and the continuing search for her killer. Violet knew enough about that case already, images she’d never be able to purge from her mind.