The Destiny of Violet and Luke(83)

He gives me a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

I shove back from the table and push to my feet. “Sorry for what? That I’m an orphan? That I have no family? That I bounced through foster families? That I’m the one who found my parents dead? Or that you can’t figure out the person who caused all of that?” I step back from the table and the legs of the chair grind against the stained linoleum. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. What I need is to not be here, remembering things I laid to rest a long time ago.”

“Violet, please settle down and think about that night carefully,” he says, rising to his feet, ruffling his blond hair into place. “Anything at all that you remember could be helpful.”

I back toward the door. “ ‘Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.’ ”

He glances helplessly down at his stack of papers, sifting through them. “I’m sorry, Violet, but I don’t understand… Is that a song?”

“Yeah, it’s a song, you *.” I jerk open the door. “The woman was singing it that night, but you should already have that in your file if you’ve read through it all. Now, are we done here?”

He hesitates, then nods once and I start to head out. “Wait, Violet, one more thing,” he calls and I pause, but don’t turn around. “I just want to let you know that you might see a few things about the case being reopened on the news.”

I whirl around. “Why?”

He stacks his papers back into a manila folder. “We sometimes think it’s helpful to announce it to the public in hopes of someone stepping forward with information.”

“No one stepped forward with information thirteen years ago,” I say hotly. “Why would they do it now?”

“Time generally makes people less afraid,” he states, gathering his papers into his hand. “I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised if you see something.”

“Well, thanks for thinking of me,” I say sarcastically. And with that line, I exit, slamming the door behind me.

I slip my phone out of my back pocket as I nearly run through the police station. I dial Luke’s number as I burst out the front doors and sunlight spills over me. It’s the only number I’ve ever programmed into my phone, other than Preston’s and my regular buyers. It’s strange to be calling him, but a little relieving to actually have someone I can rely on. I felt sort of bad this morning that I was barely talking to him, but I couldn’t help it. I was too nauseous and distracted with coming down here and I’ve been feeling awkward about our kiss. I’ve never done awkward before—I’m usually the one who makes people feel awkward.

Luke’s phone never rings, going straight to his voicemail, and I shake my head at myself. “I should have known better,” I mutter, pressing my finger over the end button without leaving a message. I shut off my phone, cutting off any connection we developed, then glance up the busy street and sidewalk, wondering what I should do. There’s all this restless energy inside me as I’m flooded by my past.

I’m not solely focusing on my parents’ deaths, I’m also remembering when they were alive, playing with me at the park, opening presents on Christmas morning, going to the zoo. Laughing and smiling in the most genuine, pure way that’s ever existed. I remember being loved. God, I hate remembering that. It hurts so bad, knowing I had it once. It’d be better if I never knew what it felt like to know someone cared about me enough to never let anything hurt me, because I couldn’t feel the ache over something I never had.

I massage my chest with my hand, pressing so hard it aches. I want to tear it open and pull out my heart to stop the excruciating pain. I’m tumbling into the place I need to escape, I need to do something other than continue to remember what I don’t have any more, to feel that they’re gone, feel the pain of everyone that never wanted me, the heartache, the abandonment, the hatred for the people who did this, the needles, the razors, the tearing at the inside of my skin. God, I need to get it out.

“I need to…” I scratch at my skin, digging and digging until lines of blood trail down my arms. “Shit.” I try to wipe the blood away, not wanting anyone to see, as I hurry down the stairs to the sidewalk beside the street.

I head to the left and walk swiftly past the shops toward where the apartment complex is on Elm. The entire way that stupid song is on repeat in my head as I keep picturing the details of my parents’ case play over and over again on TV. It becomes my own personal torture and I can’t turn it off no matter what I try to think about. And it takes an hour to walk to the apartment in this heat, and I’m thirsty, hungry, and mentally and physically exhausted by the time I’m entering the entrance of the apartment complex. But through the heat wave, my desert-dry throat, and my grumbling belly, I still feel the clawing sensation under my skin and the nagging need to shove it out of my body, the only way I know how.