Where Silence Gathers (10 page)

Twelve

Progress in the attic is slow-going. One wall of boxes is finished, organized and labeled. I washed two old chairs and put them under the window, a small table between them. Some of the books and knickknacks from the boxes are on display along the shelves behind it. An old snow globe, the record player, a dollhouse. Things Missy didn't think worthy of keeping but couldn't bring herself to throw away, either.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—Andrew, no doubt. I ignore it and bend to open a new box, coughing when dust flies up. A spider skitters out of the sweater on top. An instant after I spot it, something touches my shoulder and I shriek, recoiling. Fear laughs before vanishing.

The spider is gone, too, hidden beneath the untouched boxes in front of me. I eye them warily, wondering if there's any way I can get out of doing the rest.

“See, that's one thing I've never understood about you. Guns and fights and your aunt's cooking don't faze you, but one little spider … ”

The sound of Revenge's voice doesn't startle me; I've been expecting him ever since I got home. “Shut up,” I grumble, turning. He sits in one of the chairs, hands folded between his knees. His hair is longer today, artfully gelled so it curls and glints. He's wearing what looks like a designer jacket. Most creatures from the other plane don't bother changing their appearances, but Revenge has always been a little vain.

I don't bother with small talk. “Where have you been?”

Imitating my brusqueness, Revenge shrugs. “Helping mankind exact his vengeance.”

Which is exactly what I haven't allowed him to do here, with me. Maybe that's why he's pulling away. He's frustrated. Maybe he's given up. Out of all the people I expected to give up on me, it was never Revenge. The idea terrifies me more than any spider or declaration of love. But instead of voicing my thoughts, I say, “That's sexist. What am I, chopped liver?”

He laughs, and it's as if nothing strange between us has happened. That odd pensive look in his eyes is gone. I'd been about to tell him about the attack, but I don't want to bring it back. “It's an expression,” my friend tells me, grinning.

“Well, I've never heard it before,” I lie, because I have nothing else to say, and dig through the rest of the box. Just clothes. The marker is next to my knee. I yank the cap off and label the cardboard side, then close the flaps and push the whole thing away.

Revenge stands and moves to the record player. There's that scratching sound again as he puts the needle on it. “You've never left Franklin. There's a whole wide world out there, my friend, with many expressions and places and experiences you've yet to discover.” Soft music ebbs through the room.

Surprisingly, him being here isn't improving my mood. I'm almost violent while I root through the next box. “You sound like you're writing a pamphlet for a travel agency.”

“Those are pretty much extinct now. See how cut off you are, on this mountain? I bet you don't even know who the president is.” I don't have to look at him to know Revenge is smirking, thinking he's so clever. I don't feel like humoring him.
TEA SET
, I scribble. My handwriting is illegible, a fact that my aunt and uncle seemed to have forgotten when they assigned this task to me. Revenge watches, twitching. He's bored. I can tell. Some things don't change
.

That's when I realize that I'm twitching, too. My fingers tap the wood floor. Forgiveness's words break through my barriers.
Do you ever just sit still?

Fortunately, I won't have time to think about him tonight. I lean back and look at the ceiling, counting under my breath. “And three, two, one … ”

“We haven't gone out in a while,” Revenge says suddenly.

There's no way Saul and Missy will let me go anywhere. Not with my head wound and the way I've been acting lately. And things are different now. Before, Revenge would suggest some party happening in another town or just a long drive.

“What did you have in mind?” I snap. “The bridge? No, wait, let me guess. Nate Foster's?” Revenge starts to answer, but I laugh, cutting him off. “Forget it. We've established that all I can do is sit in that damn car and stare at his house. I don't have what it takes. Okay? So you can focus on the people who are actually worth your time.”

Turning my back on him, I rummage through yet another box. A long, long pause cracks our friendship, threatening to shatter it completely. Desperation kneels beside me, her expression strained as she strokes my hair. Maybe Revenge thinks she's here because I want to confront Nate Foster so badly—and I do—but in this moment all I want to do is ask him what we are. Or, at least, what we could be. It's on my list of fears, after all. Small spaces, spiders, confronting Nate Foster, and asking Revenge for the truth.

Desperation leaves us to our stilted silence. We've never fought before, not like this. It's my fault. I've been unraveling ever since art class, the knots of sanity and reason so far undone it will take hours to tie them back together again.

The music screeches to a halt, probably sensing the tension. I don't know how to fix this, and I'm not sure I want to. It begins to seem like the damage is permanent when Revenge finally says, “I know what will help.”

I rub my eye, sighing. Suddenly I'm so, so tired. “Oh, yeah? What?”

“Kiss me.”

At first, I wonder if I imagined the words. They're so faint, just a whisper. Slowly, I face Revenge again. “W-what?”

As an answer, he gets up from the chair, and my breathing becomes uneven. His essence burns through me, almost painfully. More images of vengeance flicker through my mind, but I'm so shocked that I barely notice them.

With an expression I've never seen on his face before—one I can't even define—Revenge advances. I'm so startled that I instinctively get up and retreat. He doesn't stop, and suddenly my back hits the wall, as it did the last time we were in this attic. Only now, there are no interruptions. Now, Revenge doesn't hesitate. Like before, he plants his hands on either side of my head and puts his mouth so close to mine that I can feel his breath. That chocolate scent torments my senses. “Kiss me,” he repeats. “Choose me.” I wait, but even though he's breaking the rules, he still won't take the choice from me.

“Revenge,” I manage, my voice strangled, all my irritation forgotten. His eyes close, like his name on my lips is a dose of morphine and he's in the throes of oblivion. Still he waits. Still I hesitate. Lust is sliding her finger up my arm.

This is the moment I've daydreamed about since I first realized how much I love my best friend. It seems so perfect. The light is serene, falling over us as if from a lantern. Silence floats through the golden space. And Revenge is here, so close I can smell his skin. I've never touched his skin. Would it be hot? Would it burn me, even deeper than I already burn? I look up at him, wondering if he can hear the way my heart thunders.
So perfect
, I think again.

But it's not.

“Why?” I whisper back.

He opens his jade eyes and frowns. Already the haze around us begins to fade. Lust flips her hair and disappears. “What do you mean?” he asks.

I put my hand over his chest, wishing I could let myself close the distance between us. It hovers just over his heart, trembling, and I remember how his heart beat that night in my room. “Why do you want to kiss me?” I clarify, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

Finally, the question is out. Yet I don't feel relieved. All I feel is … dread. Maybe Fear himself does have some tact, because he doesn't stay after answering his summons.

It seems I have good reason to be afraid, though, because Revenge isn't answering. He takes a step back. I feel myself blanch, and another fracture splits between us. It's never been this way. There are always words or debates or laughs. Not this. “Revenge?” I bite my lip so I don't cry. I will not cry.

I've never seen him so … cold. He's a stranger, with his tight mouth and darkened eyes. He takes one more step. “Stop,” I say through my teeth. He does. Remaining against the wall, I clench my jaw so hard that it aches, but it's nothing compared to the pain of losing my best friend. I can't look at him anymore, so I study the floorboards, all the ridges and stains. Revenge doesn't speak, and after a few seconds my broken whisper echoes into the stillness. “Please … please don't give up on me.”

Exactly three more seconds tick by, and I feel his shock. Then he's back, his hands cradling the air around my face. “I will
never
give up on you,” he growls.

A sound escapes me, part-hiccup, part-laugh. I raise my hands to finally touch him.

Too late. He's gone, off to another part of this spinning planet where I can't demand answers to questions that never should be asked. I don't move. Downstairs, I can hear Missy singing and frying something on the stove. The record player is stuck, making a faint clicking sound I hadn't heard before. Just as I start to walk toward it, there's movement out of the corner of my eye. I spin, and my heart sinks when I see it's just the spider. The tiny creature has emerged from its hiding place, daring to scuttle across the floor toward another stack of boxes.

I step on it.

After dinner, I try to help Missy with the dishes. She waves me off, saying I need to rest. That's the last thing I need; now, more than ever, I need to avoid the turmoil of my thoughts. So I drift downstairs, into the shop. Shadows fill every corner, but moonlight illuminates the area around the front door. It reveals the dusty, tiled floor. I never come down here; the pianos remind me too much of Dad.

One of them calls to me more strongly than the others. It waits in the corner, black and ancient. Probably untouched for years. Reluctantly, slowly, I approach. For a few seconds I just look down at it. Then, gently—despite how much I want to destroy it—I lift the lid. The black and white keys greet me. I run my fingers over them, steeling myself against the images it brings. The ring on my thumb glints.
Concentrate, Alex. I know you can do this. Remind me, what's this note again?

I slam the lid down.

Averting my gaze, I swiftly walk to the office door, which is behind the long counter with the old register. Saul is sitting
at his desk with a map laid out in front of him. A single lamp casts a glow over everything. First I look at the file cabinets, which hold all the customer and tax records for the shop, then I turn my attention to the piles of maps. Some old, some obviously new. Finally, I focus on the man who collects them all. The top of his balding head gleams.

“Saul?”

Once again, I bring Surprise to Franklin. The Emotion settles his hand on my uncle's back. Saul recovers quickly and seems genuinely pleased to see me. “Hey, beautiful.” He smiles. His glasses are perched on the end of his nose. Looking at his maps always puts him in a good mood. “Couldn't sleep?”

More like I never tried. Revenge, dreams, and voices make sleep impossible. Thinking of the voice must give it strength; I hear it in my head again, louder than ever.
Alexandra
. Wanting a distraction—any distraction—I leave the doorway and sit down across from Saul. It's the first time I've been in this room since I was a little girl. Nothing has changed, not even the smell.

Saul must sense something isn't right, because he actually sets his map aside. My eyes follow the movement. It's a night of asking what's never been asked before, because I blurt, “Why do you love maps so much?”
Distract me. Please.

Saul tilts his head and appraises me. I wonder what he sees. After a moment he pulls the map back toward him. It rustles. He traces the lines with the tip of his finger. He and Dad had such different hands; my uncle makes a living tuning pianos, while my father spent his days beneath the ground.

Now he spends all his time there.

Stricken by the thought, I almost miss it when Saul says, “ … guess I like the organized chaos of the world.” He looks at me, smiling sadly. Somehow I know we're both thinking of Dad now. “I like knowing how things begin and end.”

His pain is unbearable to witness, because it only reminds me of my own. Focusing on the map instead of his face, I walk forward and put my fingers next to Saul's, touching an ocean. The light slants across our wrists.

“If only everything could be like that, huh?” I murmur, swallowing.

Maybe Saul wants to avoid the pain too, because he leans away. “If only.” He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “It started when I was a kid. Your dad and I used to have this dream. We talked about exploring the Amazon. So I studied maps, to figure out our route.”

I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly it clicks. My spine goes rigid. An Emotion puts a hand on my back and I don't even care. “I better get back to the attic,” I say hurriedly, backing away. “Uh, thanks for the talk.”

Obviously puzzled, Saul watches me go. I'm too excited to make a better excuse for my abruptness. I run back upstairs, digging the flash drive out of my pocket.

I know what the password is.

Thirteen

A single word. Without Saul, I never would have guessed it. Some dreams are too unbearable to share when it becomes evident they'll never come true. They become so much to us, just as important as family and friendship. Georgie might talk about getting out of Franklin, but Dad always said he'd die here. As if he knew. I remember how the light was fading from his eyes day by day. But some part of him must have kept hoping. We always hope, even when we know we shouldn't. I sit down at my desk, ignoring Angus's nightly knock once again, and boot up the laptop. Plug the flash drive in. Wait for it to load. The password box pops up and my hands tremble as I type it in.

AMAZON.

The computer thinks for a moment. My pulse hammers. My cell phone goes off yet again and for the hundredth time I let Andrew go to voicemail. I wait for that little box to jiggle and tell me I'm wrong. But then … it works.

A list of files lines up, a scroll bar to the right of them. There's so much that I know it'll take me
days
to get through everything. I let out a long breath and get to work, reading as fast as I can—which isn't very fast. The titles are vague, things like
SUBJECTS
and
TEST ELEVEN
and
COMPONENT ATTEMPT SIX
. Some of the files are videos. When I double-click on the first one, the clip shows rubber-gloved hands putting drops of liquid into a petri dish. The substance reacts, expanding in different colors. An accented voice narrates in scientific terms I don't understand. There's nothing that links to Dad, so I keep going, frowning.

“Alex?” A knock on the door. “Are you all right?”

I jump but don't take my eyes off the screen.
Don't open the door, please don't open the door.
“Fine, Missy! Just … working on an essay.” The laptop begins to cool itself down, humming into the stillness.

“Oh, okay. I'll leave you to it, then.” She sounds pleased. Ignoring Guilt's heavy hand and the prick she causes in my chest, I click on another folder. A few seconds later, I'm alone again.

There are what looks like dozens of documents, full of formulas. I go back to
SUBJECTS
and open it. There's a list of people's names. Some names have been marked with the strikethrough tool: Emily Knowles, Greg Lick, Cornelia Hass. The labels beside them read
Found
or
Failed.
Next to the untouched names—Travis Bardeen, Christine Masters—they become
Found
and
Submitted.
There are more, but I'm too eager to find information on my dad to scan all of them.

Then I find it. A mention of him. There are emails between Dad and someone named Dr. Felix Stern. Each one is short and to the point:
My office today. Bring samples. Meet me at the lab. Pick Emily up at six o'clock. No research today. Doing the next test.
The dates occur every single day for three years, and then they abruptly stop just before the accident.

How did Dad know this man? What were they doing? And why wouldn't he tell his family about it? I rack my brain, trying to recall any conversations I overheard between him and Mom about this, but there's nothing.

I put Dr. Felix Stern into a search engine.

Results fill the screen. He's the only Felix Stern in the area … and he's a chemistry professor at Green River Community College, where Andrew works. Coincidence? Probably not. His office number is on the website. It's too late to call, so I rummage in my desk drawer for a pen, then scrawl his contact information down on my hand for tomorrow. Before I've even finished writing the last digit I'm back on the laptop, opening another one of the videos.

This one is different. It's in the lab, but there are shots of other people standing around the table. They watch as those gloved hands drop something red into the petri dish. One girl is holding a bandage against her upper arm. She raises her gaze, obviously anxious. The camera moves on to the boy standing beside her. His attention is glued to the table. Whoever is recording moves on again … and my stomach drops. This person I recognize. This person I've already learned not to trust.

Andrew stares back.

Throughout my classes, I'm so distracted I may as well have skipped. The lectures are barely a sound in the background, my friends are dull blurs in my peripheral vision, and for once the Emotions don't bother me. I keep going over it again and again: Andrew standing at that table. Andrew knowing about the flash drive and lunging for me. Every instinct I have urges me to drive to Green River and demand the truth, but all that gained me last time was bruises and betrayal. I could take one of his calls, but this isn't a conversation I want to have over the phone, and the sound of his voice would make me nauseated. The only person who can help me is the mysterious Dr. Stern, but he doesn't pick up any of the times I call.

After the last bell, Georgie finds me at my locker. Exasperation trails after her, a creature with rat's nest hair and permanently pursed lips. “We're meeting at the lake again,” Georgie says, leaning her hip against the locker next to mine. She watches my movements with narrowed eyes, probably sensing the instant denial that rises up inside of me.

I sigh, leaving all my notebooks and textbooks because I know there's no chance I'm doing homework tonight. “Isn't there an easier way not to see Billy while actually seeing Billy?”
Slam
.

She ignores this, scanning the kids walking past us. I know the instant she spots Billy, because her entire face brightens. “The lake in ten minutes, or we'll hunt you down!” she tosses over her shoulder, flouncing away. Her perfume lingers even when she's gone.

Scowling, I start to compose a text to Missy. Halfway through, a new message comes in from Mark, saying he won't be able to make it to the bonfire but do I want to grab a cup of coffee next week? Resolving to respond later, I let my glance flick back to Georgie, at the end of the hall. Billy has his arm wrapped around her and she isn't fighting him. I wonder what changed. Just a couple weeks ago, her only interest was L.A. It seemed like nothing would distract her from that. Is attraction so inevitable? Or just that powerful?

Yet Revenge seems to have no trouble resisting me.

Text forgotten, I yank my jacket on so hard that the teeth of the zipper catches the skin of my palm. I suck in a breath. “Are you coming?” someone asks, rushing past. Briana. I nod, forcing a smile, and she beams. “Good. Meet you there in a little bit.” Once again I have no chance to respond, because she's already at the doors, pushing them open, walking into the sunlight.

I stay where I am, watching the Emotions and my classmates hurrying by like some ocean made of limbs and hidden pains. I close my eyes … and when that familiar scent of chocolate washes over me, they snap open again.

Revenge smiles. “Hey.”

That's all it takes. Just the sound of his voice. Suddenly I'm transported back to the attic, and those words he said surround me:
I will never give up on you
. For the thousandth time I lose myself in the fire of Revenge, and for the first time since I opened the flash drive, I forget about the shroud of mystery hanging over my father and the past.

“Hey,” I say back, softly. Never before have I been so tempted to touch him, to finally give in to wanting him. Images come hard and fast—us facing each other on my bed that dark night, the sweat beading our skin when we moved to the music on the record player, the way his eyes glowed that first night at Nate Foster's.

He thought I would choose him. Instead, I torture him. I'm a yo-yo, a metronome, a pendulum, everything vacillating and restless and infuriating. Maybe I've known all along why things have been changing between us. By not making a choice myself, I've left him no other choice.

Choice. My fingers twitch, just moments away from reaching for him. But then Forgiveness's face flashes in my mind, and I stop.

I tell myself there's no way Revenge can know what I'm thinking. It must show on my face, though, because his countenance darkens. A third chance to speak slips through my fingers like sand. Before I can repair what I didn't mean to break, he vanishes.

“Damn it!” I swear. Faith Carson gives me a funny look as she passes. She doesn't know what it is, to have someone and then begin to lose them. To believe that nothing can ever come between you, only for it to actually happen. Sighing again, I head for the parking lot.

Gray clouds gather above the mountain, great frowns in the sky. Wind flattens my shirt against my front. Hopefully it will start raining soon and Georgie will let me slip away. I point the unlock button at my car and the headlights flash. The smashed stump where the mirror used to be reminds me that Franklin isn't as safe as it once was, so I make sure to lock the doors again when I settle behind the wheel. Briana and Georgie are in Briana's car, already pulling out. Georgie leans out the window, her bright hair flying, and whoops. Billy honks his horn, and an amused smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

One by one, like some kind of parade, they all get onto the road. I'm slower to follow. Every instinct urges me to turn the opposite way and find Dr. Stern. There's a line behind me, so I eventually turn, but once I'm on the county road I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, in the direction of Green River. The horizon has darkened even more. Is there really a point going to the lake?

There's no sign of the others; they must have sped ahead. Briana and Georgie are probably standing around the fire, talking and drinking and enjoying being young and alive. Maybe they wouldn't even—

In the mirror, something glints where before there was only trees and road. Frowning, I do a double-take.

There's a brown Taurus following me.

My heart stops. Once again Fear pays a visit, his freezing hand brushing the back of my neck when he tugs at my ponytail. As usual, he's there and gone in the space of a few seconds. Quickly I reach over and take the gun out of the glove box, my hand shaking. Then I press on the gas. Gravel spews under my tires and dust flies, filling the mirror and hiding the Taurus from view. My best chance is to get to the lake. Everything else is too far away. Distantly, I'm aware that Elvis is singing on as he always does. The world could end and Elvis would still be singin
g.

A sound rips through the chaos, a smattering of rocks against the side of the car. I jerk my head and see the Taurus alongside me, dangerously close. The man behind the steering wheel is wearing a ski mask. All I can see are his eyes, crinkled and bright as though he's smiling. I go faster, and he does too. Suddenly the Taurus veers and slams into me.

I scream, clutching the steering wheel tight. Some part of me realizes that my hands are empty; I must have dropped the gun. There's no chance to reach down and feel for it, because I know he's going to try to push me off the road. There's no ditch to cushion my fall, only hard, merciless trees. For a wild moment I consider slamming on the brakes or trying to surge ahead, but there's no time. The Taurus swings away and comes back with all the force of a battering ram.

I grit my teeth and yank the steering wheel back, just barely managing to stay on the gravel. Metal screeches on metal, and the inside of my door has begun to fold in. What do I do, what do I do? Can't call anyone, I'll be dead before they can—

The Taurus hits me again, and now he stays against my car. It takes all my strength to keep the wheel straight, and I'm not screaming anymore. Instead, another Emotion appears in the seat beside me. A hard, tiny smile flits across his thin lips as he tightly grips my shoulder. Rage crackles through me, making the blood boil in my veins, making me see red.

The man in the Taurus pulls away, readying for another strike. He thinks I'm weak. He thinks I'm content being a victim. Not this time. I do what I couldn't the night of the accident: I fight back.

I see Surprise touch my attacker just before I jerk the steering wheel to the left and shatter his world.

Maybe it was because of our ever-increasing velocity, or maybe my anger gave me strength he didn't have, but the damage is far more substantial from this collision. Those eyes behind the mask scrunch in pain just before he slams on the brakes. Without thinking I stop too, flying forward to search for the gun. It's next to my heel. Then I'm jumping out and swinging the barrel in the attacker's direction. He hurriedly shifts into reverse. Running at the Taurus, I fire off three shots. The sound of them is distant, as if someone else is pulling the trigger.
Bang. Bang. Bang
.

My aim is terrible. One hits his headlight. Glass sprinkles to the ground. One hits the grill. One hits the windshield, just to the right of the man's head.

Then another sound joins the gunshots, coming from him, but I'm so removed, so blinded by fury, that I don't know what it is. The Taurus, now whining, continues reversing and spins in a circle. Dust gets in my eyes and throat. I keep the gun raised. There's no point, though, because once the dust clears, he's gone. The wheeze of the engine fades. I stay where I am, the clouds still roiling above me. Geese honk and flap across the somber expanse, then they're gone, too.

There has never been a silence like this. So devastating, so confusing, so painful. No, that's a lie. There was one other silence similar to now. Though I try not to remember that night, I do remember being in the hospital room after, when Missy tearfully told me I was the only one left. I lay there beneath those mint-colored blankets, listening to the sound of my heart beating on the monitor, and I existed. I didn't absorb or process or think. Alex Tate was gone, and in that moment there was just a girl with skin and blood and bones and organs. I didn't recognize myself, and I don't now.