Page 110 of Twisted Violet
“But I couldn’t do it. So I told him to be quiet, then I shut the panel, and waited in the dark for everyone else to clear out.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, as the memory scrapes against bones. “My boss came into the room for a final sweep and when I told him it was clear, he sensed the lie immediately. He shoved me out of the way, ripped the panel open, and dragged the kid out by his hair. As he was struggling, he looked right at me and begged me for help. And I just… watched.”
The silence in the car is thick.
“I didn’t intervene when he killed him. I didn’t even cry. I just sat in the dark watching the life drain from his eyes. And now? Every time the lights go out, that’s what I see. Not peace. Not quiet. Just that little boy and the reminder that I failed him.”
I lift my head to meet her eyes. “That’s why I’m here every night. Because I know I failed you, too. So, I’m going to do everything I can to prove that I’ll neverlet you down again.”
She holds my gaze, steady and unblinking, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me.
Then, slowly, she reaches into her glove box and pulls out a folded up piece of paper and tosses it into my lap.
I glance down.
It’s a sketch. A delicate line work design of a crescent moon framed by a scatter of 9 tiny stars.
“I’ve got an appointment with Sean next Wednesday after work.”
My fingers trace the edge of the paper, careful not to smudge it.
It’s beautiful. And more than that, it feels like a piece of her she’s letting me see.
She starts the engine, the low hum filling the quiet between us.
“You should come,” she adds casually, but her eyes flick to me like the words matter more than she’s letting on.
It takes me a second to answer.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll be there.”
I fold the sketch carefully, set it back in her glove-box, and slip out of the car in the cool night air.
The dark is still heavy, but it doesn’t press as hard. Not when she’s here with me.
FORTY-ONE
VIOLET
I’m halfwaythrough my turkey club when I hear the click of nails on pavement.
I look up and immediately groan.
“Ollie, no. Tell me he didn’t…”
But there he is. Trotting around the corner of the café patio like a distinguished little gentleman on a mission. Ears alert, tail wagging, head high, like he’s delivering royal correspondence.
Strapped to his back is a little khaki vest with bold black lettering stitched on the side:
OPEN ME.
I drop my sandwich with a sigh. “Oh, that’s low. Even for him.”
I slide off the bench and crouch beside Ollie, who stops with theatrical flair and lifts one paw like he’s offering a butler’s tray.
“And you’re his evil little accomplice,” I mutter, scratching behind his ear.
He leans into the touch with a smug little huff, like he knows he’s already won.
