Chapter Twenty-Seven
Violet
Consciousness returns in a nauseating wave, the world tilting and swaying beneath me.
Not the world. A metal floor.
The taste of chemicals coats my tongue, and a throbbing ache pulses behind my eyes with every bump we hit.
I’m awkwardly curled on my side. My hands are bound behind my back, and the rough plastic of zip-ties digs into my wrists. I try to move them, but my fingers are numb. Panic cuts through the fog of chemicals swimming in my head.
Where am I?
Darkness. An array of smells assaults my senses. Gasoline, oil, and stale sweat tell me I’m in a moving vehicle.
But something else. Oranges? Old cigarettes?
Voices cut in from the front, muffled.
“…deep enough out by the old warehouse. Current is strong this time of year. It’ll do the trick.”
“Just make sure the blocks are secure. Boss doesn’t want anything resurfacing.”
A cold seeps into my bones, different from the metal of the floor.
Warehouse. Blocks. Currents. The words are painting a picture so final, so simple that my mind is skittering away from it. No. That’s for the movies. Not for me. Not in Milan.
Michel. Ollie. They’ll know what to do and can send people. Ollie can trace my phone.
With a whimper of effort, I force my body to shift, rolling to get my bound hands slightly more accessible. My fingers fumble against the slick fabric of my pants, searching for the outline of my phone in my pocket. It’s still there. A tiny, desperate sliver of hope.
Minutes feel like hours. My numb fingertips brush the hard rectangle, but I can’t get it to slide out.
I twist, contort, and move in the most uncomfortable of ways until I can hook a thumb into my pocket’s edge.
Another brutal lurch of the van sends me sliding, but I hold on, dragging the phone up and out until it clatters onto the metal floor beside my hip.
Now for the hard part.
I can’t see the screen.
I have to do this by feel and memory. I press the side button, a faint glow reflecting off the grimy wall.
Siri. I can use Siri.
My voice is dry, a terrified rasp as I whisper, “Hey Siri. Call Ollie.”
A chime, then a soft digital dial tone purrs in the silence.
Please, please, please.
From the front seat, a different phone rings. A custom tune I recognize instantly. It’s the ridiculous ringtone Ollie had set for herself on my phone. Money, Money, Money” by ABBA.
The dialing in my ear syncs perfectly with the music from the front.
A partition between the cab and the back slides open with a sharp click. The bland-faced man from the cafe leans through, holding up a buzzing, lit-up phone. On the screen, a photo of me and Ollie at my first album release party, smiling brightly.
“She’s not going to answer, sweetheart.” His voice is almost bored. His eyes dart to the driver, who’s still out of view from where I’m lying.
Bland Man answers the call and puts it to his ear.
And then he speaks, but his voice is gone.
In its place is Ollie’s voice. An almost perfect replication that could easily be misconstrued on the receiving end.
Her cadence and her accent hit my ears when he says, “Violet, doll.
Is everything okay? You never call me at this hour. Kisses ‘n all that.”
It was the exact tone she’d used on the phone with me for the last few weeks. Every paranoid feeling I’ve had about knowing something was off makes sense now.
The truth doesn’t slam down on me; it pours in like icy water waiting for me at the warehouse. Filling me up and drowning me from the inside.
They’d gotten to her. The calls, the reassurance. It had all been him, lulling me, isolating me.
Ollie is gone. I need to call Michel.
The man, using Ollie’s voice, smiles at me. “Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. The water’s very cold.”
Knowing this may be my only chance to find answers, I start my second desperate set of twenty-one questions.
“Why?” my voice croaks as I continue to struggle with my bound hands.
His lips form a thin line as he looks at the driver and back at me. Then he shrugs. “Money, kid. You’re not worth the trouble. Solace is ours.”
SMACK.
“Dude,” Bland Man shouts, rubbing the sore spot on his chest. “She’s gonna die, anyway. What’s it matter?”
“How long have you had Ollie?” I try to get a good look at the driver.
Bland Man laughs. “Let’s just say Ollie never actually had a stroke.”
It’s been months. Months that she’s been gone. My eyes squeeze closed at the thought of her being forgotten. Not mourned the way she should have been.
He shrugs like a kid just got told they can’t have ice cream and “it sucks being a kid.” Then, he slides the partition shut, ending our conversation.
I hold tight to my phone and throw one last Hail Mary. “Hey Siri, call Michel.” I’m sobbing now, the tears salty on my lips. But this time, when the partition opens, that specific smell hits me again.
Oranges and stale cigarettes.
Citrus and smoke.
“As a security detail, I can’t be on the phone and drive.”
“Michel?”
Bland Man looks at me and waits for the realization to hit me.
“Oh yeah, Michel basically owns Aethelgard. At least his name does.” He grabs the driver's face and squeezes, though I can only see the motions and assume that’s what is happening.
“This face is hidden behind the scenes to keep you safe.” He’s talking pouty lips like he’s complimenting a cute baby.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Michel growls.
“But…” my chin quivers. “And Tommy?”
Bland Man puts on his best voice. “Oh, Michel. Tell Vi to pitch that bland sweater and trade it for this bangin’ top.”
His laugh fills the van as he throws his head back.
“Tell me, toots.” Bland Man adjusts in his seat so he can get a good look at me. “Tell me how many times you’ve met Tommy.”
My mind starts racing through every memory I have with Michel.
Michel telling me Tommy says hi.
Michel telling me Tommy loved the concert.
Michel telling me Tommy picked out the perfect scarf for me.
“He ain’t real, darlin’.” Then, he turns back around in his seat.
They really put in the effort to make sure I was isolated.
Once again, the partition slides shut, and they carry on a conversation that sounds like nothing but static in my ears.
I lie here, paralyzed. Not by the ties, but by the sheer finality of it.
This is it. These are my last moments. In a dark, smelly van with my wrists rubbed raw.
My thoughts aren’t about fighting my way out of this. They’re of absence.
I’ll never see my mom again. I’ll never hear her say my name or feel her hug that smells like lavender and home.
I’m leaving her with a mystery, a body she’ll never recover. She’ll spend the rest of her life looking and wondering.
And then there’s Skye.
A sob tears from my throat, silent and wrenching. Skye, who is waiting for me. Who texted me that she couldn’t stay away. Who has rules, punishments, and a claim she thought was unbreakable.
She’ll go to my empty room and wait and search. But she’ll never find me.
The storm inside her will have no outlet, no focus. It will just be rage, in the space where I am supposed to be. I’ll never feel the weight of her collar again. I’ll never see that rare and reluctant smile.
The tears come hot and hopeless, soaking into the grimy floor.
This is how it ends. Discarded like trash by someone I trusted. To never be found or finished.
A soft, pained groan cuts through my weeping. It comes from behind me, near the rear doors.
I strain to turn my head and see a shape slumped against the door. A flash of color.
Cassie’s neon-pink jacket.
They’ve taken Cassie, too. Because of me, her last moments will be here, in the dark with me.
The van slows, then turns onto a rougher, bumpier road. Gravel crunches under the tires.
We’re almost there.
The cold isn’t just fear anymore. It’s the promise of the water. The crushing weight of the blocks they spoke of and the endless, silent dark.
I close my eyes, not to fight, but to try to hold on to their faces one last time.
Mom.
Skye.
I hold them in the light of my mind as the van rolls to a stop.