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.

She knew it was foolish to hope for such simplistic solutions, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that way. She hated that by taking this pill Dr. Lee would somehow know she needed him.

But the sad truth was, she did need him. The pills were the only things that seemed to help these days. The only way she could shut off the interminable imprint so she could sleep.

Check that, so she could drift into a comalike state—sensing, tasting, smelling, and hearing nothing at all.

It was bliss. Pure, unadulterated, drug-induced bliss.

She threw the pill into her mouth and swallowed, savoring the chalky feel against the back of her tongue. Relishing that soon—very, very soon—she’d feel nothing at all.

Even if it was only temporary.

Even if it meant going back to Dr. Lee for more.

“You excited about tomorrow? First day of school.”

Violet pulled a clean mug out of the dishwasher and scowled at her mom’s enthusiasm. “Seriously, Mom, take it down a notch. What’s gotten into you, anyway? Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” She frowned at the window, wishing the shades were still drawn against the glare of the morning sun.

Maggie Ambrose’s expression shifted, contorting into a mask of compassion. “I heard you last night. How late were you up?” She took a step closer, and Violet realized for the first time that her mom was already dressed, already wearing her paint-smeared smock, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. The only thing missing was a beret, perched just so, to complete the look of a picture-perfect artist.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Her mom’s mouth twisted. “Stop deflecting and answer my question. Is it the imprint, Vi? Is it keeping you up?”

Wincing, Violet shook her head a little too quickly, pretending she couldn’t hear the eerie plinking of the music box all around her. “Of course not.” She hated that she was so transparent, and wished her parents would stop looking at her like that . . . like she was somehow broken. “It’s . . . school. I’m just excited about school.”

Her mom laughed, but there was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice. “Yeah, right. You and school, you’re like this.” She held her fingers up, crossing them tightly together. But she didn’t push the matter, even though that worried expression returned as she changed the subject. “I was thinking about taking a little field trip into the mountains, to see if I can find some inspiration up there. Maybe you should come with me,” her mom suggested, watching as Violet’s hand shot up to cover her eyes against the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window. “The fresh air might do you some good.”