Where had the cat gone? Had Violet dumped it somewhere? Thrown it away? Buried it?

When Violet rushed through the yard to her house, she didn’t even look around her.

At that moment, the girl thought about making her presence known. She thought about what it would be like to hurt Violet just for the satisfaction of witnessing the expressions she so longed to see.

She imagined striking Violet with her bare hands. Clawing at her eyes. Ripping her hair from her scalp.

Fear. Terror.

She imagined slashing Violet’s face.

Begging. Pleading.

She imagined breaking her neck.

Surrender.

The daydreams were so sweet.

And then Violet closed the door to her house, leaving her with nothing but her fantasies.

Chapter 10

“So why do you think he hasn’t asked me out?” Chelsea asked, unwrapping another piece of gum and stuffing it in her mouth. It was her third piece.

“Shhh . . .” Mrs. Hertzog warned, placing a finger to her lips.

Chelsea frowned at the librarian but lowered her voice as she leaned across the table and repeated her question. “Mike Russo? How come he hasn’t asked me out yet?”

Violet already knew who “he” was without Chelsea qualifying her question with either a first—or a last—name. Mike was all Chelsea wanted to talk about lately, but today, of all days, Violet didn’t mind. It kept her from thinking of . . . other things.

Violet hadn’t told anyone about the cat. Not Jay, not her parents. No one.

Somehow, she felt changed by it. It had become her dirty little secret.

Whenever she thought about standing there, shivering from the cold and looking into the box that entombed a dead cat, Violet realized that her ability to search out the discarded dead had been used against her. And the person responsible probably hadn’t even realized it.

Whoever had left that cat couldn’t have known that it would wake Violet. And they had no way of knowing that the echo emitted by the cat would also be imprinted on them, a mark they would carry forever. That meant Violet would know who had done this, that they wouldn’t be able to hide from her.

And she assumed that whoever had done this was someone she knew. Why else would someone place a dead cat beside her car? She was bound to discover who it was sooner or later.

The problem was, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know who had left it. Or why. Sometimes not knowing was better. Easier. And maybe even safer.

But if someone could kill an innocent animal to deliver a message, or a warning, then how far would they be willing to go to convey their true feelings?

She knew she should be afraid for herself. But she was worried for more than just herself now.

She was worried for Carl. For her friends. And for her family.

“I already told you, Chels, give him time,” Violet whispered back, managing to stay decibels quieter than Chelsea, who was physically incapable of silence. She and Mrs. Hertzog had a standing feud over the matter. “Has he called you at all?” Violet asked, even though she already knew the answer. Chelsea would have exploded with joy if he had.

“No,” Chelsea answered glumly, and then she snapped her gum, earning herself another scowl from the librarian. She ignored the scolding look. “And I don’t get it. I’ve given him my best material, including the I’m-easy-and-you-can-totally-have-me bedroom eyes. What’s he waiting for?” Chelsea stopped talking and dropped her face into her open history book. “Look out, crazy librarian at nine o’clock.”

By the time Mrs. Hertzog reached them, Chelsea was pretending to be interested in her assignment, filling in the dates on her paper as if it were the most fascinating homework in the world. Although Violet was almost certain that the War of 1812 hadn’t occurred in 1776.

“Miss Morrison, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to be working? Your teacher sent you down here to study, not to socialize.” She smiled sweetly at Violet. Chelsea’s gaze narrowed as she glared, first at Violet and then at Mrs. Hertzog. But, wisely, she kept her mouth shut. “If you need help finding reference material,” Mrs. Hertzog offered, glancing over the answers on Chelsea’s paper, “I’d be happy to point you in the right direction. . . .”

Chelsea swallowed, and Violet suspected she’d just swallowed her gum, since gum was a library no-no, before answering. “No, thanks. I think I’ve got it covered.” She smiled, trying for sweet but getting closer to sour. “Unless you have any information on the Russo family?”

“What Russo family?” the librarian challenged, as if it were highly unlikely that Chelsea was really interested in “research.”

She was, just not the kind of research she could do at the library. And Chelsea wasn’t the only one interested in Mike Russo.

Violet thought about her meeting with the lady from the FBI, and wondered what Sara Priest had been fishing for. Violet couldn’t help thinking that her interest in Mike hadn’t simply been random.

“Never mind, Mrs. Hertzog, don’t worry about it. You don’t have the information I need.” Chelsea smirked at the woman and then pretended to salute her, a dismissal if Violet had ever seen one.

To her credit, Mrs. Hertzog didn’t react to Chelsea’s lack of respect. Instead she issued a veiled warning: “All right, but if you change your mind, I’ll be right over there.”

Chelsea’s eyes narrowed as she watched the librarian walk away. “Thanks a lot, Violet. Aren’t you supposed to have my back or something?”