Where Silence Gathers (14 page)

Seventeen

For the next two days, I'm on my best behavior. When all my instincts urge me to go see Andrew, or return to the mines, or hunt down Dr. Stern, or sit outside Nate Foster's house, I stay where people think I belong. I do it for them. Missy, Saul, Briana, Georgie. Maybe it was seeing my friend's parents so happy, or telling Revenge that he's the only choice for me. Ultimately, Nate Foster is the one who's supposed to suffer the most. So the least I can do is give my loved ones a respite, a few days of peace. Nothing is over, though. It feels like the stillness before a storm, when the sky is yellow and roiling and you know something is coming.

On Monday night I'm lying on the couch, putting on a show of reading a book for school. My aunt went to bed an hour ago, and Saul is on his way home from a tuning, but I still don't move. Part of me wishes this was real, the tentative surrender. The false contentment. They're starting to trust me again, I can see it. I want to have these days to remember when everything ends.

“You haven't turned a page in five minutes.”

He stands across the room, watching me with his dark eyes. As usual, he's wearing that white T-shirt, and his hair looks casually mussed like he's just rolled out of bed. But that's impossible, since they don't sleep. For the first time I'm envious of something from the other plane: they don't receive unwanted visits from Dream.

I close the book, marking the spot with my thumb. “I know for an absolute fact that I didn't summon you, intentionally or otherwise,” I comment. I haven't been tempted to think of Forgiveness since I saw my father.

“You didn't.”

I frown. “Then why are you here?”

Oddly, Forgiveness ignores this. I catch him studying our surroundings with interest. The ancient carpet, the worn furniture, the framed photos of our family on the wall next to the kitchen doorway. It occurs to me that he's never been in the apartment before. I start to repeat the question when he asks, “What are you reading?”

If I didn't know any better, I would think that he's trying to change the subject. I appraise him as I answer, “I'm trying to read
To Kill a Mockingbird
. It's for a class, and I'm so behind I don't know why I even bother.” My voice is low, to ensure Missy won't hear us over the running fan in her room.

He walks along the edge of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. I try not to compare them, but it's impossible. Where Revenge has always seemed out of place in the mundaneness of my world, Forgiveness … fits. He may be the beautiful one, with his sculpted lips and high cheekbones, but he doesn't have that restless energy that makes Revenge so otherworldly.

“ … a good story,” Forgiveness says. I blink, realizing that I missed the first part of the sentence.

“You've read it?”

Forgiveness smiles faintly and stops beside me. I have to crane my neck to look at him. “As a matter of fact, I have. I've read many of your world's books.”

“Why?” It's awkward, him standing so close and me taking up the whole couch. But he's too polite to sit and I'm too stubborn to let him.

Seemingly unaffected, Forgiveness tilts his head and examines the cover of the book on my lap. “I find them interesting.”

Silence. Telling him to leave has never worked before, and secretly I don't want him to. Tonight I find his presence more soothing than conflicting. I don't have to put up a façade or try to say the right things. So I clear my throat and tuck my legs under me, putting the book face-down by my feet. “Will you … do you want to … ”

As an answer, Forgiveness picks the book up. He settles onto the cushion, which only indents slightly at his weight. That minty smell teases my senses. He adjusts his position until he's nearly slouching, then opens the spine wider. Though I try to put some distance between us, I find myself admiring the elegance of his jaw. Then I realize he's about to read.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I cut in.

Forgiveness raises his brows, as if to say,
Isn't it obvious?
He shifts, effectively moving closer to me. And in that gentle voice, he begins.

Arguments and protests rise up within me. This is too strange, he shouldn't be here, I don't want him here. But he keeps going, undeterred by my discomfort, and I gradually realize that none of it is true. For a few minutes I remain stiff, uncertain. It's an unstoppable force, though—his deep, calming timbre lulls me into a place between reality and dreams. Any lingering sense of uneasiness around Forgiveness fades away. He smells so good, like mint and kindness and sleep. I let my eyes flutter shut. Eventually the story, the room, and the Choice fades into nothing.

The sound of voices ripples through the apartment. I sit up. Dad must be home. He sounds angry again. Mom sent me to bed a while ago, and I know I should be asleep, but I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the door, putting my ear to the wood. “If you don't stop this, you're going to lose us. Do you understand? I'm not going to be like the other women in this town,” Mom shouts-whispers.

The floor creaks as they both walk by. Shadows move over the crack of light by my feet. Something clatters and I jump. They go into their room, and Dad rumbles something I can't hear. Mom answers. Brief snatches and phrases drift to me.

“ … promised it would be safe … ”

“ … Alex … ”

“ … rumors … ”

“ … telling me the truth … ”

With each word they become louder and louder. Hunter is going to wake up, and I don't want them to fight anymore. I want us to be like we used to be, happy and smiling. I don't like how much Dad scares me now. Deciding to risk making him even madder, I open the door and step into the hallway. Something glints on the floor, and I see it too late as my heel sinks onto the sharp edge. I reel back, crying out. Keys. I remember the sound from earlier—Daddy dropping them. I plop down and hold my foot. Blood seeps from a tiny cut.

Mom hushes Dad, and hinges moan. Light floods the narrow space. “Alex? What happened?”

“Alex? What happened?”

It takes me a minute to realize that it's Missy's voice slicing through the dream. I raise a fist and rub some crust out of my eyes, but the world is still blurry. I can see enough to know that my aunt is standing over me and she's clearly upset, staring down with a perplexed frown. Outside, the sky is the pink of dawn. What am I doing on the couch?

Last night comes to me in pieces. Dinner. Saul leaving. Missy going to bed. A book in my hands … and Forgiveness. I jerk upright, twisting, but of course he's gone. He must have laid a blanket over me before he left. I finger the green knit material, recalling the warmth of his voice.

“Alex? Are you listening? What on earth happened in here?”

I look up at Missy again, prepared to ask her what she's talking about. But something over her shoulder catches my eye: a piece of paper plastered to the wall just above the light switch. What … ? There's another piece of paper, just by her foot. Frowning, I stand up and look beyond her.

“What do you—” I blink, and the blurred room finally comes into focus.

The pages of
To Kill a Mockingbird
have been torn out of the spine and scattered everywhere.

Laughter echoes through the parking lot as I get out of my car. I slam the door shut; chips of paint flutter to the ground. The damage from the confrontation with the Taurus looks as bad as ever, but at least my car still runs. I turn my back on the forlorn car and walk toward the building, keys in hand. The letters over the doorway in front of me glint gold in the sunlight:
GREEN RIVER COMMUNITY COLLEGE
. I walk beneath them and grasp one of the long door handles, pulling it without hesitation. The time for uncertainty is over.

There's a group of students standing near the doorway. I brush past them. Air conditioning toys with my hair as I turn right, heading for Andrew's office. After all those avoided calls and messages, I'm ready to hear what he has to say. Apprehension stalks me all the way to the door. He disappears the moment I see that the lights are on in the room but the chair behind Andrew's desk is empty; he probably went for a coffee run.

I venture to the bookshelves like I did last time, prepared to wait, but it occurs to me that this may be an opportunity. If I've learned anything these past few weeks, it's that people don't destroy their secrets; they only hide them.

Hurriedly setting my keys down so both hands are free, I open all of the drawers in the desk, rifle through the files and papers. From swift glances it's obvious there's nothing here besides the typical academic documents. Next I jiggle the mouse to his computer, waking it up. The screen brightens and I swallow a curse when another password box taunts me. There's no way I'll be able to guess it. I stand back, looking at every corner of the room to see if I've missed an area to snoop. Unless Andrew actually writes his secrets down and tucks them into books, there's nothing.

Wait. Not nothing. I lean forward again and take the phone out of its cradle, stepping over the long cord. Praying that Andrew uses this machine more than his cell or the one at home, I jam a number with my knuckle to get his voicemail. My foot taps impatiently, anxiously. People keep walking by the doorway, but no one looks in and sees. That could change at any moment.

An electronic voice drones a greeting. Fortunately, there's no passcode here. I listen to the menu for a minute, then hit
7
for saved messages. The first one comes on immediately, just a co-worker offering tickets to some concert in the city. It's dated two days ago. The next message is older, from two months ago. Andrew, calling himself to leave a reminder about renewing his license.

There's a third message on the phone's memory, but I'm on the verge of hanging up. Maybe Andrew is the rare individual who keeps everything locked within his head, or at home where I can't reach it. Just as I pull the phone away from me, though, that electronic voice announces the date when this one was saved.

Over six years ago.

Why would he keep a message for so long? My breath quickens, and now Anticipation is beside me with a gleam in her eye. The message starts. This voice is different from the others. Deeper. It has a slight drawl to it that takes me a few seconds to recognize, and I'm concentrating so hard that I miss the words it's saying.

A jolt slams down my spine when I finally realize I'm listening to my father's voice.

He sounds … breathless. Like he's running. “I know you took the kids, and I know you lied to me and Stern,” Dad says. “But if you think—”

“Yes, I'll take another look at it and get back to you.”

Andrew. Alarm slams through me, and I gasp and put the phone back with a clatter. I can hear his footsteps against the hard floor, coming closer, about to discover me going through his private belongings. There's no time to circle the desk and go to the shelf, act as though I'm doing nothing wrong.

The desk. Desperately I get on my knees and crawl into the space beneath it. It's tight, but I still manage to pull the chair in so I'm concealed. There's no time to grab my keys. Andrew says goodbye to whoever he's talking to and comes in. There's the sound of the door closing. I curl into myself, hardly daring to breathe.
Please don't sit down. Please, please, please …

He doesn't. I watch his shining shoes stop in front of my hiding place. The flutter of papers is louder than my own breathing. There's a thud; I guess he put his briefcase down. His cologne coils around me, and then someone is crouching next to the chair, reaching for me with a pale hand. I smother a cry. For a wild instant I think I've been discovered … until I see the shock of white-blond hair and that familiar smirk. Fear. “Great hiding place,” the Emotion says.

I'm so tense that it feels as if my organs have turned to wood. Of course I don't answer, and Fear snickers before going off to terrorize someone else.

It doesn't take long to realize that my insides couldn't be wood, because my lungs wouldn't be shrieking for air. And the leg of the chair is jabbing into my calf. The pain becomes more important than the risk of discovery, and I'm about to shift when Andrew's voice slices through the stillness. “Alex.”

I freeze.

“It's Andrew. Again. I'm coming to Franklin tonight. We need to talk. I haven't gotten any responses from my voicemails or texts, with good reason, but you need me right now. You probably already know why.” I hear him moving away, and I dare to breathe again. The light flicks off, the door closes a second time.

I scramble out from under the desk, trembling. Part of me aches to finish listening to the message, but Andrew could come back and all my instincts urge me to run. I snatch up my own keys from where they rest behind a picture on the desk, grateful he hadn't noticed them. Just as I pull away, my gaze slides across the picture itself … and I stop. Double-take. Stare.

It's a faded image of a man standing next to a little boy. Their clothing is so outdated it must have been taken a long, long time ago. I don't recognize either of them, but something about it bothers me, flicks at my consciousness. How have I missed this before? Hurriedly I pick it up and remove the back from the frame, sliding the picture out from its resting place against the glass. I'm about to flip it over when words catch my eye, scribbled in the right corner.

Andrew and Sammy, 1985.

It can't be.

My heart stops, and I reread those words again and again as if they'll change or rearrange themselves into something else. But they don't. Suddenly I know what's so familiar about the picture. The man, his face. I saw it in a newspaper article in the attic, among my father's things. Sammy Thorn. Kidnapper, murderer, eternal mystery.