His eyes shot upward, widening—a little too much at first—and then he narrowed them, keeping them trained on her, the girl behind the counter. Had she seen it? Did she notice the sliver of nail polish he’d forgotten to scrub away?
It was then that she looked up at him, and for a moment time seemed to freeze as they stayed like that, staring at each other. His heart was racing as his mind worried over what she might have witnessed. And then her lips parted, her brown eyes fastened on his, sparkling as she smiled at him. Fully. Without inhibition.
It was the loveliest of smiles.
His mouth curved in response, daringly. Boldly. Telling her that he, too, was ready, even as his heart hammered recklessly.
She involuntarily licked her lips, reaching up to tuck that invisible strand again, before turning back to the next customer in line. He knew he was still smiling, but he couldn’t help himself. It was soon—too soon after his breakup—but there was no accounting for love, after all, was there?
When he was sure he’d scraped away every last trace of the shimmering purple lacquer, he carefully folded his newspaper and tucked it beneath his arm. He was done here for now. He would have to come back later, when the girl’s shift was over. Maybe he could even have a chat with her. Maybe they’d hit it off.
Maybe it was time for him to get a new girlfriend.
Chapter 3
VIOLET GLANCED AT THE ASSORTMENT OF SCIENCE journals and National Geographics on the table in front of her. She always wondered why doctors and dentists didn’t fill their waiting rooms with more interesting reading material like fashion magazines or entertainment news. Even tabloids would be better than the assortment in front of her. It looked like school . . . on steroids. She reached for a copy of Scientific American with a cover article about dark matter, and she absently flipped through the pages, not really noticing them.
A faint headache pulsed at her temples and she knew what it was . . . it had been there all day, taunting her. Just enough discomfort to remind her that she wasn’t entirely in control of her ability. Which was why, of course, she was sitting here now, at the appointment Sara had scheduled for her for this afternoon. Violet knew Sara only had her best interests in mind. That she wanted Violet to be safe. And safe meant learning to curb her impulses . . . to stop the echoes from consuming her, especially in the days after finding a body.
Dr. Lee opened the door to his office and poked his head out. “Ready?”
Violet tried not to sound too morose as she muttered, “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” She dropped the magazine back on the coffee table as she got up to follow him.
Inside his office, she went to her usual spot, a chair across from the couch and adjacent to Dr. Lee’s. Funny how they’d already established a routine after only a few sessions. Funny, too, how Violet refused to sit on the worn leather couch, no matter how inviting it looked. Somehow the couch made it feel more . . . shrinklike.
Dr. Lee gave Violet an easy smile as he crossed his legs, setting her file aside and giving her the impression he’d just been brushing up on her case. “How are you today, Violet?”
There was no point mincing words—wasn’t it kind of his job to know if she wasn’t being completely honest? “A little better today. The breathing exercises and CDs have helped, but I’m still feeling . . . uneasy.”
He settled back but his eyes never left her face. His bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows drew together. “And when did this uneasiness begin?”
Violet smiled. It felt like a dance they did. He, pretending he didn’t know about the body in the warehouse, that he wasn’t in contact with Sara at every turn. And she, pretending she didn’t know he knew.
“Yesterday,” she answered. “I found a body yesterday.”
“Murdered?”
There was no need to nod—he already knew the answer—but she did anyway.
“A girl. Stuffed in a freezer in an old warehouse. We found her last night. We were following up on an anonymous tip that she was in the area.”
Dr. Lee pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “Yes. I saw the story about her in the paper. Did you see it?”
Violet shook her head. Even if she read the paper, she would’ve avoided it today, not wanting to see anything about the girl. Sometimes rehashing things like that made it worse for her.
He considered her response the way he seemed to consider everything—patiently, thoughtfully—his foot bobbing up and down in an even rhythm. Violet concentrated on the toe of his shoe. White sneakers. Practical, but not very professional. She wondered if Dr. Lee dressed out of comfort or in a conscious effort to put his patients at ease. Maybe he thought a suit and tie would make him seem stuffy and unapproachable.
“Did anyone happen to mention how long until she’d be buried?” he asked, understanding that that would bring Violet peace—real peace—at last.
“Sara said that as soon as they could confirm the girl’s identity and perform the autopsy, then she could be released to her family. That way they can make funeral arrangements.”
“And then you’ll be . . . better?” He’d asked these questions before, and Violet suspected he’d be asking them each time this topic came up.
“Pretty much.” She shrugged.
He smiled. “But not all the way?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, drawing a deep breath. “It’ll just happen again, the next time a body . . .” She shifted, anxious about which word to use. She wondered if she’d ever get used to talking about it. “. . . you know, calls for me.”