Where Silence Gathers (20 page)

Twenty-Four

I stand on the edge of the bridge.

Missy and Saul don't know about school yet—Julia agreed to let me tell them—and I had to make a pretense of going somewhere today. This was the first place I thought of. The water trickles below, brown and bloated from all the rain. The morning sun is painfully bright, reflecting off the silver of my eyebrow ring, and I squint. Though the weather has been deceptively cold this spring, a drop of sweat slides down my temple.

Minutes pass. I envision myself spreading my arms like some sort of bird, slowly tipping forward and falling onto those rocks. If I were to die now, would I end up with my family? For that matter, do people change in whatever afterlife exists … or do we take all our pain with us? I consider it for a few seconds, try to imagine what it would feel like to have my insides at peace, my mind at rest, my aches and wars gone.

Or existing with them forever.

And yet … if I leave now, I'll never speak to Briana or Georgie again. Saul and Missy. Revenge and even Forgiveness. Their faces haunt me, their shadowed eyes and fragile hopes. So much unfinished and so much barely begun. So much undiscovered and so much concealed. At the thought, Guilt materializes on my other side. And thinking of him must have been the encouragement he needed, because Forgiveness forms on the other. I focus on his beauty while Guilt touches me with her big, meaty hand.

“Do you regret what you did to Mrs. Foster?” Forgiveness asks after a moment. Today his voice reminds me of bells. Though still gentle, it's harsh and clanging to my ears. Just like the town clock, always ticking in the distance. Reminding me that there isn't much time left. Nate Foster is leaving and I still haven't kept my promise to Dad and Mom and Hunter. And myself.

“Yes,” Guilt says. I scowl and shake her off. She smirks and disappears from view. I turn to stare at the creek again, but I know Forgiveness is watching me instead of the water, waiting for me to tell him.

If only there were some middle ground. There's no such thing as halfway or middle or between, though. There's only what is and isn't.

Forgiveness hesitates. “Alex—”

“You know, I missed the part where you became my therapist. Just leave it alone,” I snap. If I let him say too much, he'll find a way through my resolve. He always does. Forgiveness starts to reply, of course, but the sound of my phone ringing slices through the tension. Probably Andrew or Missy. The man who betrayed me or the woman I betray every day.

In a burst of emotion I can't contain anymore, I yank the phone out of my pocket and throw it into the river. It's still ringing when it splashes into oblivion. Then I swing away from all the Emotions crowding the bridge and storm toward my car.

Only one of them follows me. His white T-shirt flutters against his torso. As I open the door, twisting to get in, I can't help but notice the ridges of muscles beneath that thin cotton.
Damn it
, I think, looking away too late. Lust and Longing surround me and their smothering embraces make escape difficult. The pause allows Forgiveness to catch up. He grips the door to stop me from shutting it, politely pretending not to notice the creatures giggling behind us.

“What?” I demand, hating how his proximity makes my heart pound. “What else do you have to say? What vague commentary, what soul-searching advice could you possibly offer that will make me change my mind?
Tell me
.”

The Choice remains calm as always, regarding me with his shuttered eyes. For the first time I long for an Emotion to visit, to turn the tables and show me what
he's
feeling. I breathe hard and glare up at him. Whatever I expected him to say, it's not, “You stopped looking too soon.”

I blink. “What?”

“You should pay a visit to Travis Bardeen's house.”

Lust gets bored and goes, but Longing stays. She observes me with an expression as inscrutable as Forgiveness's. The bridge is empty except for the three of us and the only sounds in the world are the birds, the creek, and my own traitorous pulse. “I know what you're doing,” I say evenly. “It won't work.” He won't distract me from my vendetta. Not this time.

I finally manage to get in the car. As I jam my keys into the ignition, a strand of hair slips into the corner of my mouth. Before I can impatiently pull it away, Forgiveness leans in and does it for me. His finger nearly brushes my skin, and I freeze. He has to hear my heart now. But once again Forgiveness takes me utterly by surprise. He leans even closer, so Longing doesn't hear, and murmurs, “Revenge made a promise to you, right?”

That minty scent is so distracting I can hardly think, much less remember a promise. Forgiveness doesn't wait for me to nod or make some semblance of a response. “I'm going to make the same promise, right now.” His eyes hold me captive. “I will never give up on you, Alexandra Tate.”

Then he leaves, stealing my chance to find my dignity or have the last word.

Damn it
, I think again, glaring at the empty air. I'm intrigued by his mention of Travis Bardeen, no matter how much I try to avoid it. And there's nothing else to do while the Fosters are at work. So I take the paper with the addresses on it out of the glove box—studiously ignoring the gun. Remembering that I have no phone to guide me, I also dig for a map. If I'm quick, I can be back by dark, before Saul and Missy notice anything amiss.

Revenge must have messed with the radio last time we were in here, because it's on. Just as Joe begins to introduce Elvis for the millionth time, I turn it off. A sign whizzes past on the right, with faded and chipping letters:
YOU ARE NOW LEAVING FRANKLIN
. That's it. No goodbyes or good luck or wishes for return. Just those simple words. It may be the only simple thing in the midst of so much complexity. The entire drive, I think about the sign and how I wish it were true.
You are now leaving.
No, not really. I always go back.

But soon, I'll make it true.

Like on the trip to find Christine Masterson, I have trouble finding the address. As I navigate through woods and winding dirt roads, I try not to picture Saul and the way his brow creases when he studies a map.
I like knowing how things begin and end.
They'll be sad at first, he and Missy, but they'll carry on, burning food and playing piano and collecting maps as they always have. I have to believe that.

“What if they don't?” Worry whispers. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

Luckily, there's no more time to wonder; I hit a dead end with a single driveway leading up into more trees. Though there are no signs or mailboxes to let me know I have the right one, something tells me I do. Trepidation surges through my veins like needles. I force myself to turn into the driveway. My car groans as I inch up the hill. There's junk and trash everywhere, and a flat tire is the last thing I need so I slow down even more.

Then, suddenly, signs start appearing in random intervals.
BEWARE OF DOG. KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING
. The next one isn't a written warning, yet it's a warning all the same: a strange, grotesque skin nailed to a piece of plaster leaning against an abandoned RV. A smart person would stop, reverse, and drive as fast as they could to get away from this place. But would Forgiveness really send me somewhere truly dangerous?

Of course he would
, a tiny voice hisses.
He's one of them.

I've come too far to go back now. And even if Dad doesn't want me to let any distractions in, all the new memories sprouting up demand answers. When I resolved to choose Revenge, I thought answers didn't matter, but they do. Courage touches my arm with gentle fingers and I keep going, until the trailer comes into view.

This place makes the Mastersons' house look like a palace. Two of the windows are broken, the door hangs off its hinges, and an enormous beehive thrives on the rusted siding. Deer antlers hang everywhere as morbid decoration. The sound of my approach brings a man to the door. He steps outside, barefoot, a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. I can feel his stare, a sensation that makes me think of oil or insects. Shifting the gear into park, I glance at the glove box where the gun eagerly waits. Impulsively I lean over and take it out, hoping the man doesn't notice the movement of my arms as I tuck it—safety on—into the waistband of my jeans. Then I get out and walk up to the trailer. Here, it doesn't smell like rotting animals. It just smells like garbage.

“You're not Al,” the man says when I'm close enough to hear. He takes a long pull on his cigarette and squints at me through the haze.

I hesitate, tempted to succumb to the urge to flee. A bug flits past me. I halt a yard away from where the man stands and do my best to seem undaunted. “No. Is Travis around?”

Slowly, the man's dull eyes scan me from head to toe. He wears a stained wifebeater and has a buzz cut. There's a large, visible scab on the side of his head. “Nope.” He flicks the cigarette to the ground. Sparks scatter across the dirt.

“Do you know when he'll be back?” I press, clenching my fists.
Don't run, don't run, don't run …

Now the man shrugs his bony shoulders. There's a wood pile next to the door, and he kicks a piece out of the way. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He hocks and spits a brown glob to the ground, right next to my shoe.

Hearing this, my stomach suddenly sinks. “Travis is missing, isn't he?” I know the answer even before I've finished asking the question.

“ … never reported it. I mean, is it considered missing if you don't want to be found?” the man counters, his drawl reaching through my reverie.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that kid was never around to begin with. He was always running off somewhere, usually that damn college. Probably screwing around with the female populace, if you know what I mean. Waste of space, that boy. Good riddance.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” I blurt, driven by some unknown instinct. The man pauses, like he's thinking. It looks painful. Without a word he slams back into the trailer. I can hear him rummaging around. He comes back a few minutes later, a crumpled photo between his dirty fingers. He leans his hip against the doorjamb and appraises me again.

“What's your interest in my son, anyway?” he asks. I can't see the picture and he doesn't give it to me.

I attempt to sound casual. “I used to know him, is all.”

“So, what, you want a picture to remember him by?” The man snorts. “Whatever. Here you go. Keep it. What am I going to do with it?” He hands the picture to me unceremoniously. While I take it he tilts his head and pushes his brown tongue through the gap in his front teeth. “So … you want to come inside?”

Some part of me knows he's speaking, is aware that words are coming out of his mouth. It's impossible to separate that distant hum into a language that makes sense, though, because the entire world has narrowed and shrunk until all that's left of it is this single image in my hand. A boy, looking away from the camera, a sly grin curving his lips. His profile is fuzzy, but I still recognize it.
Hey, watch it!

Travis Bardeen isn't missing.

Because he's the man who bumped into me in the hallway at school.

Briana is sitting on the steps when I get back to the apartment.

Anger squats beside her, and the sight of him is what makes me pause. In the course of our lives, I have never seen him touch my friend. Sure, Briana gets mad. She's human. But she doesn't let it control her, and it's always so brief I'm not around to see it happen. But of course I would be the reason she's finally let him close.

Birds harmonize into the stillness as I approach. Regret and Sorrow walk with me, holding my sweaty hands. When we stop, Regret departs, wiping his palm on his slacks. Sorrow lingers, pressing his shoulder to mine. I don't look at him, yet I can still feel him as keenly as I do Revenge and Forgiveness. There's an eerie kinship between me and this Emotion, like an invisible string knotted around our souls. Forever binding, always tugging when the other takes a breath.

Anger lifts his head to glare at me. Briana doesn't move. She examines the cracks in the sidewalk as she says, “Missy called me. She begged me to talk to you. Said that if anyone could get through to you, it was me.”

Of course she's talking about school. I lean back on my heels and heave a sigh. After everything that's happened today, all the revelations that are flying in circles within my head and cackling like witches on brooms, it's more obvious than ever before that I don't know what's right or wrong. What I do know is that Revenge is at the end of my story.

So instead of offering an explanation, I sit down beside her. Overhead, clouds drift across the sky with a detachment that I envy. My mind flashes back to when Briana and I were kids lying in the grass, staring up at them and claiming the fluffy whiteness resembled a train or a flower or a heart. We were both so innocent, so free. The girl sitting beside me now is someone I barely recognize. How did I miss this pain, this struggle?

Because you were so focused on your own
, that vicious voice answers.

Shame kneels before us, gripping my ankle. His baby face is pointed to the ground, where he isn't forced to see what it means to realize your own shortcomings or how much you've disappointed. It occurs to me yet again that I don't deserve someone like Briana Brinkman. She's still waiting for me to respond, and I curse all my inadequacies. If I could make one wish right now, it would be having those perfect words on the tip of my tongue. Not to take away the battles or the wounds—we need them to make us strong.