“V, wait.” Rafe reached across the space between them and grabbed her arm, closing his hand around the sleeve of her hoodie. “Just hear me out,” he begged, his voice softer now, quieter even than usual.

She reluctantly turned to face him. She didn’t want to meet his gaze, but she could feel his thoughtful eyes on her, penetrating her, and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing upward. She sighed, her only audible response, but it was enough and Rafe knew he had her attention.

“I need to get in there, to see if there’s anything . . .” He didn’t finish, but his brows drew together and Violet could see he was trying to choose his words carefully. “I want to do whatever I can to help. Hopefully before it’s too late for someone else.”

And that was it, the one thing Violet couldn’t do that Rafe and the others could. He and Krystal might actually be able to stop this killer from striking again. They might be able to use their ability to do something good. Something very, very good.

Just like Rafe had done for her.

She felt herself waver as she bit her lip. “God, Rafe, I don’t know. You could get in so much trouble if you got caught.”

His serious expression faded, and even though his voice remained calm and quiet, everything else about him—the mischievous glint in his blue eyes, the half grin that challenged her, the dark slash of his brows—looked defiant and dangerous. “From who? The cops? Sara practically has them eating out of her hand. And what’s Sara gonna do, ground me? I don’t think so, V. I think Sara wants this info as much as we do. I think if she could give the order herself, she would. She’d probably thank me for going in there to look around.”

“Yeah, somehow I doubt that,” Violet said.

“So you’re coming, right?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. It was a terrible idea, but she wanted to know as badly as he did if they could find anything useful.

Rafe and Krystal stared at her, waiting for her to make up her mind.

After a moment, Krystal turned to Rafe again, acting as if Violet didn’t exist. “When are we going?”

“I was thinking tonight. That way I can put the key back before anyone realizes it’s missing.”

“Fine. I’ll drive. No way I’m getting on that metal death trap of yours.” Violet wanted to shush Krystal, to tell her she was being entirely too loud—especially in light of the fact that they were talking about becoming felons and all.

At last, Violet’s voice ripped like dry paper from her throat. “I’m in.”

Rafe jumped up from his chair, a wide grin on his face, his teeth a brilliant flash of white. Violet didn’t think she’d ever seen him so . . . so enthusiastic.

Violet swallowed around the grit forming in her throat, which threatened to smother her if she waited too long to speak again. “I’ll meet you in front in five minutes.”

Uncertainty

HE STEPPED CAUTIOUSLY INTO HER ROOM, NOT wanting to disturb her too soon. She needed her rest. He knew she was exhausted.

It was dark, but the lack of light didn’t indicate night or day. It was always dark in here, just the way she liked it.

He stopped briefly, deftly balancing the tray on one hand as he pulled the lighter from his pocket and lit the small candle on the dresser that stood just inside the doorway. The candle’s light infiltrated the space, casting flickering shadows over every surface, into every corner. In the pale glow, he could also see that he wasn’t disturbing her at all; she was already awake, her eyes wide. Alert.

He balanced the tray in both hands, smiling broadly. “I’d say good morning, except you slept most of the day away. It’s dinnertime.” He glanced self-consciously at the tray, suddenly nervous, his palms sweating and his heart racing. “I brought you some soup. I figured you must be starving.”

She didn’t answer—not out loud—but he knew she was glad to see him. Her eyes darted around the room, first one way and then the other, searching, appraising.

He followed her gaze as he set the tray on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside her. He took in the details of his handiwork, trying not to smile, reminding himself that too much pride was an ugly trait. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” His gaze roamed over the thick black foam that covered the windows and walls, absorbing both sound and light. “I did it just for you. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

The mattress shuddered violently, and he turned back to look at her, confused. She thrashed wildly, her body convulsing beside him, and he wondered if she was trying to get closer to him. They always did.

But he was worried she might hurt herself, so he leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke. Her entire body went still, every muscle coiled as she waited on his words. “Be still now. There’s plenty of time for that later. Let’s get to know each other better first . . . take things slow.” He sat back, feeling more relaxed knowing that she was as eager as he was. “Besides, you don’t want to make sores,” he explained, his fingers gingerly brushing the ropes around her wrists. “Infections can get nasty if we’re not careful. And I don’t like infections.”

He couldn’t stop himself and he reached for her fingertips, caressing each one in turn, inspecting the ridges and curves of her nails. “I brought lilac for you. It’s a pale shade of purple with just the faintest shimmer.” He picked up the bottle of nail polish from beside the bowl of soup and held it up so she could see. He wished he had something more to give her—a gift. He liked to give them gifts. But he’d lost hers and this was all he could offer. “It will be beautiful on you. Now, are you ready for some food?”