The Probability of Violet and Luke(12)

“This is Violet,” I say, shutting my eyes and crossing my fingers that maybe this will be the time he gives me good news. “Violet Hayes. I was just… checking in.”

As soon as he sighs, I know nothing has changed. “Violet, I know you want to know—and trust me we do to—but these things take time.”

“It’s been almost two months.”

“I know. We’re still working on getting the search warrant approved.”

“Can’t you move any faster?” I say more harshly than I planned. “Sorry, it’s just that it’s driving me crazy.”

“I know,” he replies. “And trust me, I’m not resting until it’s solved either. But I also need you to let me call you when something happens, instead of checking in.”

“Sorry for bugging you,” I mutter, opening my eyes.

“You’re not bugging me at all. I just want you to stop stressing about this and try to live a normal life,” he says. “And while we’re on the phone. How’s the texting from that reporter? Did he stop?”

“Yeah, he did,” I say, standing up straight and collecting my bag from the floor. “Thanks for getting that restraining order put on him.”

“Anytime.” There’s another pause and I know what’s coming before he says it. “What about Mira Price’s son? Have you talked to him at all since I brought him in for questioning?”

“Not really.” My chest starts to tighten, my lungs constricting and sucking away the air. Stop it. Turn it off.

“I think that’s for the better,” he says. “At least for now.”

I get what he’s saying, but it feels so wrong. For the better? If this is for the better, then why does it hurt so badly? “I have to go,” I say. “It’s time for my next class.”

“Okay,” he says. “And remember, call me if you need anything.”

But clearly he means call me only if you need something that doesn’t have to do with checking in.

After I hang up, I pull myself together and walk out of the bathroom confidently, ready to move on from the conversation and go fishing—a distraction. But the moment I step into the pond, I feel deflated, thinking about how much I’d rather be trying to drown myself instead of standing out in the campus yard, looking for a sucker. The longer I search the crowd, the more I just want to bail and deal with whatever punishment Preston’s going to give me. I’m not feeling it and I’m about to give up when my phone buzzes from inside my pocket.

I take it out and unlock the screen. A text from an unknown number. Not surprising. It happens all the time anymore.

Unknown: I know what happened to your parents.

And let the games begin. I shake my head, thinking of Stan, and some of the other calls and texts I’ve gotten since the news went public. I consider what I should text back.

Me: Yeah, I think everyone does anymore u moron. They were murdered. Thanks for reminding me though. That was super-duper nice of you.

I move to put my phone away but it buzzes in my hand. Sighing, I open the incoming message.

Unknown: But I know who did it.

I stop breathing as I read it over and over and for a brief, very gullible moment on my part I actually wonder if this person might know something, like maybe about Mira or the other person that was there that night. But at the end of my analysis, I decide that it’s probably just some god damn *, like Stan the reporter, and a few other one’s I’ve sporadically met during my few trips to the police station. I even received one phone call with someone bribing me with their information in exchange for a few gory details of what I saw that night. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that a reporter new more than the police and I do, so I told him where he could go f*ck himself.

I’m about to text back and call the person out on when I hear someone say, “Are you Violet?”

There’s a guy standing in front of me and my entire body tenses as a million different thoughts race through my mind of who he could be. A reporter. The police. The other person who was there that night my parent’s where killed, although he looks too young for the latter.

He’s wearing a fancy pinstripe shirt with the sleeves rolled up, along with a pair of name brand jeans, and shoes shinier than my lip-gloss. “You are Violet, right?”

Despite my alarm, I don’t miss a beat, even though my heart does. “Why? What’s it to you?”