Caine had only been eight years old.

Violet agreed with the sheriff that his story was sad, tragic even, but it didn’t change who he’d become. He was a murderer, plain and simple. In the end, he hadn’t been the kind of person to feel sorry for, at least as far as Violet was concerned. Given the chance, he would have killed her without so much as a second thought.

At the clinic, Violet had begged for nail polish remover, so she could strip the lacquer reminder from her nails.

But it wasn’t until they were pulling into their driveway the next morning that Violet felt the first pangs of panic about returning to her real life. She wasn’t sure she could go back in there—into her house. Not after everything that had happened. She was too worried about the memories it would hold.

She already carried an eternal reminder of Caine . . . of his death.

Violet turned up the volume on her iPod, trying to drown out the persistent music box she heard. It had been hard to sleep last night. Even harder not to dream about him.

But now . . . being here.

Her mom turned and waved her hand in front of Violet’s face, vying with the music for her attention. Violet pulled one of the earbuds free. “Your friends are here,” her mom announced, smiling in the same way she’d been smiling ever since she’d heard the doctor at the clinic say that Violet was okay. That she just needed some rest and she’d be fine.

Violet had her own opinions about that diagnosis.

When she saw Krystal’s car, Roxy, parked alongside Jay’s car in the driveway, the mask—the practiced look of serenity she’d carefully donned during the ride home—slipped.

“I know how much they mean to you,” her mom ex-plained, her expression painfully hopeful.

Jay stood waiting for Violet outside, and when the car stopped and she got out he watched her silently for a moment, their eyes locked. And then he was running toward her, catching her in his arms and wrapping them around her. Neither of them said anything for a long, long time; they just stayed like that, holding and touching each other, breathing each other in. Jay squeezed her against him, and every time they’d start to relax he’d squeeze her again, his grip tightening even when Violet didn’t think it could possibly tighten any more.

“Don’t ever do that again, Violet Ambrose. I swear to God, you can never do that again,” he said when he finally loosened his grip, keeping his fingers interlaced with hers.

Violet didn’t tell him she hadn’t done anything. She didn’t explain that none of this was her fault, or talk about what had happened during the past several days. Instead, she just lifted her eyes to his. “I won’t. I promise.”

Behind him, Violet saw the front door to her house open, and she stiffened when Rafe stepped out.

Jay was watching her. “What’s wrong, Vi? I thought you’d be happy to see them. It’s okay. If Rafe’s important to you, then I guess he’s important to me too.”

Confusion battled inside her, but Violet just stared over Jay’s shoulder, her eyes never leaving Rafe.

She didn’t know how she felt about her team right now.

It wasn’t their fault, she knew. She’d loved getting to know Sara and Krystal and Sam. She was grateful for everything Dr. Lee had done to help her. . . . Even Gemma, as bitchy as she was, deserved a break, Violet supposed. She’d had a rough life, with no one to support and believe in her. Violet might not particularly like her, but she didn’t exactly hate her either.

And then there was Rafe . . .

Rafe, who was standing here now. She’d probably never be able to stay away from Rafe entirely.

But she’d given it a lot of thought over the past few days, and she’d decided that she’d be safer—happier—if she steered clear of their unusual organization.

Even if it meant she couldn’t use her ability to help anyone. For now, at least, she needed to concentrate on taking care of herself.

“Talk to him,” Jay finally said. “He came here to see you.”

Violet shrugged, the only answer she seemed able to give, and then nodded. She moved away from Jay, reluctantly untangling her fingers from his, as Rafe came down the steps to meet her.

Violet thought he might hug her, an awkward embrace she’d endure, because that’s what people seemed to do in a situation like this. Her uncle and her parents had. Even the sheriff, who she’d never met before, had wrapped his arms around her like she was some long-lost relation. She understood, she supposed. It was relief. She’d felt it too.

But Rafe, of course, had to be different.

“Dammit, V, I tried to call you. I tried to warn you,” he admonished, frowning as if it were all her fault. He started to close the gap, his hand moving uncertainly toward hers.

Violet shoved her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, the one her parents had bought her from a bait shop in the lakeside town . . . the hoodie she’d be burning later so she wouldn’t be reminded of her ordeal with Caine. She didn’t want Rafe to touch her; she couldn’t risk letting his skin brush against hers.

He followed her lead and tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His casual stance belied the turmoil Violet could feel coming off him like heat. “I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She shrugged.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He watched her intently, his blue eyes somber, sorrowful. “Krystal’s inside. She’s dying to tell you how she knew where you were. Plus, she made you cupcakes. I think she’s been channeling the spirit of Betty Crocker lately. She’s been baking cookies and pies. The kitchen at the Center’s been like a bakery.”