“I’m going to go take a shower,” he announces and then leaves the room.

Seth gets up off the sofa. “I’m going to go have a smoke,” he says to me. “You want to come out with me?”

I shake my head and his face contorts with confusion, because I rarely turn down a smoke break. “Okay,” he says, his eyebrows raised as he leaves me and goes out onto the balcony.

I wonder why none of them are reacting like I am, but then again neither of them know the stuff I do about Violet. They might not even know her last name, since she was so reluctant to hand it over to me.

Jesus. What do I do? I mean, maybe it’s not related to her, but she did just go down to the police station today and she grew up in foster homes, but wouldn’t tell me what really happened to her parents. But other than that I don’t know much about her, which seems so wrong at the moment, especially if she’s carrying that inside her, all that death. Death is so heavy. I know this.

God, she must be hurting. I get up and go to the bedroom door. It’s locked, so I knock. It takes several more knocks before she opens the door with a look on her face that rams me in the chest. She’s not crying or frowning or upset. She just looks like she’s drowning in a lack of emotions. There’s a small television perched on the desk in the corner and the same news channel I was just watching is on the screen.

She takes one look at my face and says, “Don’t ask me.” Then she steps back from the door and flops down on the bed on her back. Desperation filters through her voice. “Please just don’t ask me anything about it.”

How the hell am I not supposed to ask her? Her parents were murdered? There’s so many questions. I want to understand her life, her, and worst of all I just want to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay, like I wish someone would have done for me after Amy died. But that’s what I wanted and I have no clue if that’s what she wants. The only thing I know is that she asked me not to ask her anything and if that’s what she wants I’ll give it to her.

“I’m going to go get something to eat,” I tell her, gripping onto the door frame as I smother the urge to bombard her with questions. “Do you want to come with me?”

She shakes her head as she gazes up at the ceiling; her arms flopped to the side. “No thanks.”

“Do you want me to pick you something up?”

“If you want.”

“Okay, I’ll bring you something back,” I say, letting go of the door frame. “Or if you want I can just stick around and hang out.”

“I want to be alone,” she whispers. “Please just go. I need to be alone right now.” She reaches for a purple teddy bear on the bed, hugging it as she rolls over. It takes a lot of strength not to lie down in bed and wrap my arms around her, but I don’t because she asked me not to.

Chapter 13

Violet

Today is turning into the shittiest day of all days in the shitty history that makes up my life. It was going fine. I got up for the twelfth morning in a row at my new apartment in my new bed and for the first time I wasn’t disoriented. Good start. Then I read a book, which was relaxing, and I didn’t think about my parents or their death the entire time. As an added bonus, I hadn’t seen Luke all morning. I’ve been avoiding him ever since he found out about my parents because I don’t want him looking at me with pity in his eyes. I don’t want him asking questions. I don’t want him learning all the details, like how I found my parents. At least the news kept that much quiet.

I’ve been focusing on moving forward and getting myself back to the place I was before all this happened, before the case was reopened, before Luke came along and it wasn’t just me in my life anymore. I need to get my head back to where it was before, become the independent unaffected Violet again.

He hasn’t even moved into our room yet, probably because I scared him off. He did stack some boxes in the closet but I think he keeps his clothes in a duffel bag in the living room. He hasn’t said anything about it either and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I keep telling myself that it’s a good thing—that space is a good thing—but I find myself questioning my true feelings.

After I spend most of the afternoon reading, I go to work and it isn’t that crowded because it’s raining and for some reason rain keeps the crowd away. Everything is simple. Until everyone suddenly decides they’re going to take their chances out in the rain. Then things get a little chaotic and I’m running around seating everyone and waiting on them the best that I can. The doorbell keeps dinging as more people file in, tracking water and mud in with them. There’s this one guy who comes in by himself, which sometimes happens—random people wander in and eat alone. He’s wearing a red T-shirt, tan pants, and has a creeper mustache, but, hey, to each their own.

“You want to sit at the bar?” I ask, hopeful, otherwise he’s going to take up an entire table.

He shakes his head, closing his umbrella and brushing the water off his arm. “I’ll take a booth.”

I mentally roll my eyes at him, seat him in a corner booth, then leave him to read over the menu while I go behind the counter to get him some water. Then I hurry and tend to the register, before I head over to his table, hoping he’s ready to order and not ready to waste my time.

“You’re Violet Hayes, right?” he says as I press the tip of the pen to the order book and suddenly I recognize his voice. I glance up from the order book as he says, “The Violet Hayes whose parents were murdered in Cheyenne thirteen years ago?”

A suffocating wave rushes through me and I clutch at the pen in my hand. “Are you the as**ole who’s been calling me?”

He notices my trembling hands. “I am.” This stupid grin stretches across his face as he reaches for the water.

Fury thunders through me, along with the stifling heat of panic. My hand takes on a life of its own and I throw my pen at him.

It hits him in the face and he flinches, dropping his water on the table and spilling ice everywhere. “What the hell?” He gapes up at me like I was the crazy one, and then raises his hands in front of him. “Okay, calm down. My name’s Stan Walice. I’m a reporter for Chanel 8 News at 8 and I’d liked to ask you a few questions about what you saw that night. I’m doing a piece about it.”

“You can go to hell. Calling me up like some kind of psycho. Seriously. You think I’m going to talk to you?” I toss the order book at him and it lands in the water and ice and the pages are instantly soaked. I spin on my heels and weave around the tables, with people sitting around them, some staring at me. In ten seconds I’ve managed to go from stressed waitress, to about-to-lose-her-shit Violet. I can feel the anger in the center of my chest, a widening hole, being torn open more.

Stan follows me as I storm to the counter. “So you saw them that night?” he asks. “The ones who broke into your house?”

I don’t answer, begging myself to remain calm. That I have to. That there is a restaurant full of people, enjoying their dinners and family time and I’ll be in some serious trouble if I make a scene.

“Did you find them?” he asks. “Your parents? I thought I read somewhere that you did? And that you stayed in the house for twenty-four hours before you called the cops. Why did you do that?”

I slam to a halt at the counter in front of the register where Sherry, a middle-aged waitress with a gray bob is tallying up bills. I turn around. “Go f**k yourself, Stan.”

At the exact moment I say it, my boss and owner of the restaurant, Benny, walks out. “Violet,” Benny hisses, glancing around at the tables and booths. His face reddens as his voice lowers. “Go in the back right now.”

Things kind of escalate from there. Reporter guy takes off out the front door, bailing on what he started. I trudge into the back kitchen area and Benny enters seconds later. He’s also the cook and wears this stained white apron that ties around his round belly. I can’t stop staring at the stains as he stands in front of the oven and chews me out. The stains are red, probably ketchup, but they look like blood. Blood. Death. Blood. I start to visualize things, not just about my parents, but about me. My death. How it’s going to happen. Horrible. Tragic. I picture myself on the floor, dying with my parents. For a second, I feel okay.

“Violet, I think I’m going to have to fire you,” Benny says and all I do is stare at his bald head, shiny in the fluorescent light.

I probably would have just let him fire me but then Greyson walks in. He’s wearing his bartending outfit, a white shirt and black pants, and has a glass in his hand. “Hey, Benny, cut her some slack. She’s having a bad day.”

“I don’t give a damn if she’s having a bad day,” he replies, lifting a lid off a stainless-steel pot. “She dropped the f-bomb in my restaurant. There’s kids out there for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, but the guy grabbed her ass,” Greyson lies, glancing at me quickly. “You have to cut her some slack. That’s sexual harassment.”

Benny peers up from the pot as he reaches over to grab a large spoon from the stainless-steel shelf. “Is that true Violet?”

I shrug, knowing I should put more effort into this, but there is too much heaviness in my chest to care. All I seem to care about is the damn red stains on his apron. “I guess so.”

“You guess so or no?” he questions, stirring the boiling water.

Greyson presses me with a look like What are doing? I just gave you an easy out.

I sigh exhaustedly, forcing myself to put effort into it, because I need my job. “Yeah, he grabbed my ass… Sorry I dropped the f-bomb.”

Benny puffs a frustrated breath and points the dripping spoon at me. “Next time come tell me before you go throwing inappropriate words around. Understand?”

“Okay.”

He frowns, his forehead wrinkling, but he lets me go, telling me to take the next few days off, and get my shit together. I summon deep breaths as I nod and then grab my change of clothes from my shelf and head out back to get some fresh air. I’m going to have to lose a week’s pay. I’m fuming, not at myself, but at reporter guy. I storm out the door and into the back parking lot where employees park. The sky is still gray with storm clouds, but the rain has reduced to a drizzle, and the buildings around the restaurant light up the block.

I clamp my jaw as I stride toward the middle of the muddy parking lot, my clothes clutched in my hands. Suddenly I ball my hands into fist and scream through gritted teeth: “Fuck him! Fuck!” I thought I’d gotten rid of reporters a long time ago. This one has to be here because the police are reopening the case.

Suddenly, I hear the crunch of gravel as someone approaches me. “Are you okay?” Greyson asks with concern.

I remain motionless. “I’m fine. It’s just a week off work. I should be grateful he didn’t fire me.” I want to say thank you because he helped me, but I’m not even sure how or where to start.

“Not about that.” He pauses behind me and I can hear him breathing. “I mean about what that guy said to you.”

I stab my nails deeper into my palms. I should hit him. I should have hit the reporter. I need to hit something. I need to get this shaking, razor-sharp, painful feeling out of me. “I’m. Fine.”

Greyson moves beside me and my muscles tighten. He’s walking into a mess he shouldn’t be walking into because I’m seriously thinking about hitting him, just so I can do something to get this slashing feel inside me to stop.

He hands me a glass filled with a red tinted liquid. “It’ll calm you down.”

I eyeball the glass warily, feeling the anger simmer. “What is it?”

“Vodka and cranberry.”

“I don’t drink.”

“I didn’t put that much vodka in it.” He continues to hold the glass out with a sympathetic smile on his face.

I snatch the glass from him and spill some on my shoe. I take a few gulps, feeling the burn of alcohol mix with the uneasy burn inside me. I’m adding fuel to the fire. I know this. And I should just dump it out on the ground and walk away.

Instead, I chug the rest of the drink down and then give the empty glass back to Greyson. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He takes the glass and rotates it between his hands. “I get off work in like thirty minutes… you could wait around… come hang out in the bar and we could catch a bus back to the apartment together.”

“Isn’t Seth coming to pick you up?”

“Nah, Luke and he have a party going on at the apartment and I’m sure they’re both too wasted to drive.”

I turn my head and look at him, wondering just how much he heard. Did he hear that my parents were murdered? That I found them. Is there another person in my life now that knows about my messed up past? “How much did you hear?”

“Some, but I promise my lips are sealed,” he says without missing a beat

Is he for real? I stand there quietly, trying to figure it out, but I can barely understand myself let alone someone else. “Okay, I’ll stick around I guess.”

His smile expands. “Okay, get changed and come sit at the bar. I’ll get you another drink.”

I probably should have argued with him, told him that I’m not a nice person when I’m drunk, that my reckless energy magnifies. But instead I nod and follow him back into the restaurant, knowing exactly what I am walking into and not caring.

Chapter 14

Luke

I’m a lucky son of a bitch. I really am, but only because I own my own luck, create it, cheat it. I’ve been gambling for almost a week and a half straight and I’m up to twelve hundred bucks. I probably should stop, but it’s hard once I get riding a winning streak. When I sit down at the table, I control almost everything and I realize how much I’ve missed it.