Where Silence Gathers (21 page)

This isn't a place where wishes come true, though, and Briana stops waiting for me. “You're not the only one suffering, Alex,” she says.

Finally I speak. “I know.”

Watching me, Briana's voice softens. As always, she sees my own struggles. “I still love you.” Her shoulder bumps mine, and it must be true, since Love appears. Usually I don't let myself look at her too closely, but in this moment it's unavoidable. The Emotion is so beautiful it's difficult to breathe. With a single graceful movement, she bends and kisses first my temple, then Briana's. The images come. An old couple in a garden, their wrinkled hands brushing as they pack the earth down around a seed. Two children beneath a blanket, giggling as they make finger shadows on the lamp-lit wall. A woman cradling a baby so young its countenance is still pink and scrunched.

“Why?” I sigh, knowing it would be easier if one of us let go.

She tilts her head. “Even though it can be hopeless, or unhealthy, or just stupid—we love anyway. Because that's what love is. Choosing to give it, especially when you shouldn't.”

The way she puts it resonates with me. The idea that love is a choice. In my mind, it was something so inevitable, burning bright and hot until only ashes are left. That was just another lie. After a moment I say, “Your parents will come around, Bri.”

Pause. Then she laughs. It's a sound made entirely of knives and razors. “No one comes out of the closet in Franklin, Alex. You know that. We're not as progressive as the rest of the world. We still play Elvis every day, for God's sake. Girls like me and Rachel Porter are either ignored or treated like dirt.”

Now she sounds like me, and that's more frightening than making a choice or voicing what I'm really feeling. What was it Forgiveness said? As if I could forget. “Our worlds are so small,” I murmur. I wonder if we can ever find our way back to those girls who studied the clouds.

“I have to go home. I'll talk to you … well, guess I won't be seeing you in school anymore, huh?” With that, Briana gets up and walks to her car. Once again I commit everything to memory. How she always moves like a dancer, the way her hair brushes the tips of her shoulders. Her frame is so short and thin, I worry that a gust of wind will blow her over or whisk her into that looming sky. Then she's getting in the car, the engine is rolling over, and she's driving away. Gone. Maybe I should have tried to stop her … but what good is trying to stop someone when they're determined to go?

The smell of grease suddenly permeates the air. I blink and Guilt towers over me. She extends her dirty fingers toward my face. It already feels like someone has rubbed me raw through my skin and under my bones, right to my soul. “No, don't touch me! Don't!” I cry. Without thinking, I jump up and stumble down the sidewalk. Guilt appears in front of me with a wolfish grin. Recoiling, I slam against the window of Saul's shop. She comes near again, running the back of her knuckles along my jaw. Her breath makes me retch. Immediately remorse consumes me in every possible way. For my weakness, my cowardice, my selfishness. The memory of what I did to Jennifer Foster crowds as close as an Emotion. Briana's expression when I didn't reassure her that I would survive this. The lines deepening beneath Missy's eyes every day. The sound of Saul's fraught piano playing.

And the look in Forgiveness's eyes when I made it clear who I would choose.

A new scent combines with Guilt's, this one rich, cloying, tempting. Just like him. It's the oddest combination, chocolate and lard. Revenge says something to Guilt, low and sharp, and a moment later we're alone. When I don't move or react, he says my name. Stricken, I stay where I am. He stands in front of me, stooping to peer into my eyes. “Alex.”

“Don't,” I repeat, softly this time. This isn't something Revenge would understand. I'm not sure he even knows what guilt is. My fingers press against the window behind me, and it feels as if this single sheet of glass is the only thing keeping me upright.

He frowns. “Okay.”

That's it. The simplicity of it is so unexpected that I open my eyes and look at him. I'd been bracing myself for questions. That's when I notice what he's wearing. His lithe body is draped in a frock, a red waistcoat, and a top hat. Square-toed boots and black trousers complete the ensemble.

“You look ridiculous,” I observe flatly. My glance flicks to his fist, which is clutching the handle of a walking stick. “Scratch that. You look
completely
ridiculous.”

“Oh, good. For a minute there I was worried I'd only accomplished partial absurdity.” His tone is dry. I touch my lips to hide a smile, and one corner of Revenge's mouth tilts up in an uncertain smile of his own. A dimple deepens in his cheek. “Anyway, you know I'm impervious to insults,” he adds.

Forgetting that I have no right to laugh or tease after all that's happened, I lift a brow in challenge. “You're also annoying.”

“Well, that's true,” he concedes.

“And infuriating.”

“That too.”

My lips form another insult, but music suddenly drifts into the space between us. The despondent tones of
Swan Lake
. Again. We both turn to focus on Saul. My uncle is sitting at one of the pianos in the back, creases lining his forehead while he plays. He doesn't notice me at the window, staring. The sight brings me back to reality, to what I've done and what must be done.

“I have a plan, Revenge,” I whisper, almost unconsciously. But I don't elaborate, and though I don't look, I feel my friend's frown returning. I can't tell him that this new plan, woven thread by thread as I came to my decision, involves the bottle of pills that live in my pocket. I can't let on that the moment Revenge is gone, I'm going to disappear, too. And it's not because I'm unable to exist in a world without him, or because of the consequences of what I'm going to do. It's because—despite what Death said—I should have died that night, with my family. I stayed because I was frightened. But I'm not anymore. I think I stopped being afraid that moment in the cave, when my father told me they were all there. Waiting. Watching.

“Alex! Supper is ready!”

Saul's playing halts and he slides off the bench. He still doesn't notice me, and for a wild instant I wonder if I'm really here. Missy calls for me again, and I pull away from the window. Drift up the stairs. Revenge follows me, and it's reminiscent of how things used to be. The apartment doesn't reek of burning food, which is promising. Shutting the door, I kick my shoes off and face the kitchen table, making an attempt to seem cheerful. Whatever façade of mirth I achieve, however, wilts immediately once I glimpse Saul and Missy's faces.

Taking a breath, I sit in my usual spot. And it begins. Emotions come and go, words rise and fall. The food in front of us is untouched. “ … can't support you forever … get a job … back to school … ” While my aunt and uncle are talking, something flashes and sways in the window, drawing my attention. Missy must have hung a bird feeder outside. I didn't even notice, and I nearly ask her how long it's been there before I remember that they aren't thinking about feeders or birds, they're thinking about futures and fears. Neither of which I hold on to now. As I watch, a hummingbird darts toward the feeder. Its wings are a green blur and its beak long and slender. It takes a quick sip of the red liquid and before I can blink, it's gone again.

“Alex? Are you listening?” Something clinks. A fork against a plate.

Blinking, I look at Missy. She clearly expects a response of some kind, so I just nod. Nothing comes out of my mouth, though. What can I offer that they'll accept? Her jaw clenches, and it's so hard for her to say what she says next. “We want you to start seeing a therapist again.”

Both of them tense, clearly expecting a battle. And the old me would have argued that people in Franklin don't talk about their problems; we act like they don't exist. Besides that, they can't afford therapy bills. Now, though, I only nod again, sitting there with my hands limp in my lap. Revenge watches me from his perch on the edge of the countertop. I gaze at his lips and imagine how they'll feel on my skin. It's easier than facing Missy and Saul.

But apparently we're done. Saul heaves himself up to refill his glass with milk, and Missy takes a bite of her meatloaf. When Saul sits down none of us try to start a new, different conversation. Eight minutes pass. The planet keeps on turning even when it should at least hesitate, and somehow the light outside is gone.

Once again Missy is the one to venture into the bleak land of silence. “We're going to the cemetery tomorrow,” she says. “Are you coming with us?”

Tomorrow is the last day, a time for goodbyes and last chances. If she'd asked me two weeks ago, I would have said yes. I'll go with you to the cemetery to see them. Say the words there was no time to say the night of the accident. But now? I know where my family is, and they're not in those graves.

“No, thank you,” I say. To be polite, though my appetite is nonexistent, I take a bite of the food she made. It should taste like ketchup or have a faint taint of something overcooked. Instead, it's a lump of nothing in my mouth.

Neither of them is surprised. Missy hauls herself to her feet, taking Saul's plate and stacking it on hers. “Almost done, sweetheart?” She sounds so, so tired.

Watching her, I know I should have been a better niece. I should have been a better everything. “Almost,” I whisper.

Twenty-Five

After dinner, I pay a visit to the sheriff's station. Saul and Missy don't try to stop me from leaving; they've finally realized it's inevitable. I walk through the glass front doors of the station and enjoy the air conditioning on my skin. This is one of the nicest buildings in the county, even with its stained tiles and scuffed walls. The woman manning the phone—Belinda, Marty Paulson's mother—smiles at me kindly. “Hi, Alex,” she says. “It's finally getting warm, huh?”

“About time, too. Is Frederick here?”

She inclines her head to the office behind her. “Back there. Go right in; he's not doing anything important. Hey, we got the water fountain fixed. You should try it on your way out.”

I manage a smile. “Don't worry, I will.”

Skirting around the desk and attempting to ignore the smell of menthol cigarettes rolling off Belinda, I open the door. Frederick doesn't seem to hear my entrance, because he doesn't look up or move from his chair. He moves his finger around the pad of a laptop. I lift my own hand to rap on the inside of the doorway, but find myself pausing to watch for a second. According to Saul, Frederick DeLauro is the youngest sheriff in our county's history. He's in his mid-thirties, already balding, and still lives with his mother. Most people underestimate him when they meet him.

“Damn it,” Frederick grumbles suddenly, continuing to be oblivious to my presence. His glasses glint in the lamplight. “Stupid, cocky, cheating … ”

“That German kid kicking your butt again?”

The sheriff jumps and simultaneously slams the laptop shut. “Oh, Alex. Uh, I don't know what you're talking about.”

At this, my mouth twitches. Everyone knows that Frederick's one goal in life is to be a chess champion. He may be the only person I know that has a dream and still clings to it, pursues it day after day. And I genuinely hope he achieves it. Someone should.

Trying to regain his composure, Frederick adjusts his collar. His badge flashes. “What can I do for you, Alex? If this is about the guy that broke your car mirror, I don't have anything yet.”

“How many people know that Andrew Lomenta is really Andrew Thorn?”

His eyes go wide. His reaction is the answer I already knew; I just needed a confirmation. Or maybe a quiet part of me wanted someone to say that it isn't true, that the man who had my family's trust isn't a monster.

Stalling, Frederick plays with his shirt collar again. His mother must have put too much starch on it. “Not many,” he admits after a few seconds, probably realizing that there's no way to avoid the truth. “He left town when he was young, and most people have forgotten that Sammy Thorn even had a son.”

There's something else I need to know. My gaze drops to Frederick's feet, and his shoes become all that exists. A tiny world of leather and laces and simplicity. “Did my father know?”

“Yes.” He appraises me, and Compassion makes an appearance. The Emotion touches his back and, as most of them do, stares at me while she does it. What does Frederick pity me for? My family's stupidity? Or the fact that they're no longer alive to trust the wrong people? I'm about to ask him more, but Frederick isn't finished. “People in town were mighty vicious,” he tells me. “Especially Erskine, since he was the kid they found at the Thorn place. But your father defended Andrew. He said that the blood you inherit doesn't make the man.”

The revelation about Erskine is drowned out by this last part. It sounds like something Dad would say. A lump swells in my throat. “Then what does?” I mutter, resisting the urge to shrug off whatever Emotion is putting a hand on my shoulder.

Frederick's brow creases. “What?”

The weight on my shoulder dissipates. “Never mind. Were there any other disappearances reported? Say … around the time of my family's accident?”

“Why don't you leave that to the adults, Alex. We know what we're doing.” To soften the words, he winks. I glance at the holstered gun against his hip and think,
So do I
.

An awkward silence falls, and I shove my hands into my pockets. For a moment I consider telling Frederick everything. About the attacks, the note beneath my pillow, my findings from the flash drive. But that threat haunts every thought and action I make:
Tell anyone about this, we go after your precious Saul and Missy next.
When I leave this world, I want more than anything for those I love to be all right. And I also don't have the time to sit in this tiny office and answer whatever questions my revelations will spur on.

“Well, guess I better get going,” I say eventually. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem. Say hi to your aunt and uncle for me.”

I move back to the door. “Will do. And also … good luck.”

The man tilts his head in confusion, and I cast a meaningful look toward the computer. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh, right. Thanks. Bye, Alex.”

On my way out, I make sure to try the newly fixed water fountain. Belinda beams, and I tell her it's great. The water tastes like rust.

The moment I step outside, a new voice calls out. When I see who it is, dread coils in my stomach: Mrs. Warren, mother-in-law to Ian, the owner of the general store. Ian's always complaining about how she'll never die, because that would mean she'd have to stop talking. Today she's wearing waist-high pants and a flowered top, with permed gray hair and oval-shaped glasses.

She hurries up to me, panting. “It's going to rain tomorrow. I can feel it in my old bones,” she manages to say.

There's no chance to respond. She goes on and on and on. Eventually I cut into her rampage on the state of Franklin's economy, or rather, the nonexistence of it. “It was really nice to see you, Mrs. Warren, but I need to go home. Missy probably needs help in the kitchen. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I certainly do. Remember that church picnic when you were twelve? She brought a ham, but it looked like a pig that died in a barn fire! Tasted okay, though. I mean, you can't
really
ruin ham—”

I hurry away.

Next, I drive to Nate Foster's. Not to use the gun or contrive more ways to ruin his life; just to observe. The entire way to the house I keep thinking how tomorrow is the anniversary of the accident. It seems fitting—even poetic—that everything should end on the same day it all began.

As if my vengeful thoughts are a beacon, deafening and exhilarating, Revenge arrives in his usual seat. He smiles at me through the dimness. I'm opening my mouth to greet him when headlights flare behind me, a white flash that makes the rearview mirror so bright it hurts.

Fear quivers into view, already grinning. “Revenge,” he drawls, wrapping his arm across my neck. The instant he makes contact, my spine goes rigid and memories of the Taurus taunt me.

“What is it?” Revenge murmurs. He doesn't even bother to respond to Fear. I don't—can't—answer. The skin on my palms goes numb from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. When the headlights don't fade or retreat, I push down on the gas pedal. Revenge twists around. “Do you know who that is?” he asks sharply, glaring at the car that's too close to our bumper.

Mutely I shake my head. The speed needle inches further and further around the circular gauge. Before I can attempt to explain to Revenge what's been happening, he vanishes. Fear leans forward again, his near-white hair glowing from the green numbers on the radio. His eyes are as bright as the headlights, eager and excited.

“I know how to drive,” he announces. “Move over.”

“Go to hell,” I say through my teeth.

Clearly affronted, Fear starts to retort. Revenge comes back, thankfully, and my heart sinks when I see his scowl. “It's no one we know. Just a guy.” He glances back at Fear. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”

Once again Fear has no opportunity to respond, because at that moment the car behind us turns. The light fades. All the breath leaves my body in a
whoosh
and Relief sags against me.

“False alarm,” I manage. Fear rolls his eyes and leaves.
Get it together
, my instincts hiss. Sanderson Road is close. There's the tree that fell during the last thunderstorm. I concentrate on breathing normally, and Revenge appraises me.

“You've changed,” he says. It's not a question or a barb. Just an observation. I don't ask him if that's a good or a bad thing, because I don't want to know. We go the rest of the way in complete silence. He doesn't disappear again, though, and that says more than words ever could.

The mailbox appears on the right, and then the house. It stands on the hill, no longer untouchable or majestic. Tonight it looks … ill. As though cancer has invaded and infected everything within and around those walls. There are no lights, no meals in the dining room, no music drifting through the windows. I get out and tiptoe across the lawn. Even if her car wasn't gone, I would know that Jennifer left. Because the kitchen is a mess. Shattered glass glitters on the floor. Satisfaction fills me, and I almost don't mind the fact that the Emotion has his hand on my chest like he's trying to find my heart. He won't find it. With each passing day it's been shrinking and shriveling, until nothing remains but a husk and the memory of what used to be.

Movement startles me, and I comprehend that I'm looking right at Nate Foster. He's sitting on the floor in the hallway, a bottle clenched in one hand. A belch shudders through his body. Seeing how he's deteriorated, I don't feel remorse or compassion or regret. Revenge comes to stand beside me. I can't tell what he's thinking, but we must be thinking the same thing.

He's lost his wife. Now he needs to lose everything else.

A figure strolls along the edge of the woods.

The moon is a faded crescent above the mountain, but the mist surrounding him emanates a light all its own. It swirls and thickens. His hands hover, palm-down, in the air next to his narrow hips. I park in front of the apartments and turn to watch Fog finish his work, the leather cushion beneath me creaking with the movement. Revenge watches, too. The Element keeps walking until the mist swallows him completely. When I face the windshield again, I catch sight of another figure. This one hunches on the steps, smaller and infinitely more human. “Angus,” I sigh. Shadows move on the gravel. His parents are fighting in front of the window.

Our worlds are so small.

I angle my body toward Revenge. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats, like it's a promise. I can't help but notice the absence of light in his eyes, the lack of anticipation and excitement and fervor. He reaches for my face, and I tense in surprise. His skin doesn't make contact. His thumb hovers along the edge of my jaw. I close my eyes and imagine what it will be like when it really does happen. It will be so brief, so cruelly brief. Will it be worth all of this?
Yes
. When I open my eyes again, Revenge is gone. Swallowing a sigh, I pull the keys from the ignition and get out.

My young neighbor looks up at the sound of my approach. “Wait here,” I say as a greeting, as if he has somewhere else to go. “I have something for you.” Angus remains silent. I hurry up the rest of the stairs and into the apartment. Missy and Saul have gone to bed. His snores and her fan blend together in an odd harmony. I fetch the jar I've been saving from my room and go back outside, settling next to Angus. Crickets sing into the stillness. “Here.” I put it into his small hands.

His profile is unreadable. It strikes me, in that moment, that we've both changed. Somehow, Angus grew without my noticing. His voice is a little deeper, his limbs a little longer, his scars a little darker. Even in a place that does its best to keep him tiny and broken. With the tip of his finger, Angus traces the ridges that holds the lid in place. He runs it down the side of the glass. Around the curve at the bottom. “Want to take a walk?” I ask him, watching.

As an answer, Angus slides off the step, clutching the jar as if he's afraid he'll drop it. I head for the woods, and he doesn't protest. Neither of us speaks. This time, it's not because we need a wall to knock on or the wall between us is too thick. Words just don't belong here.

Old leaves and branches crackle underfoot. My gaze keeps returning to the treetops, hoping for a glimpse of the rocket that's been lost for so many years. I skim the bushes and underbrush, too, yearning to catch sight of a swishing tail or those familiar floppy ears. There are only shadows and the flickering lights of fireflies in the distance. The stars are out, but they're locked in a fierce battle with the clouds, making them difficult to see.

We don't go too far from the apartments. I listen carefully every time we draw near, and when I finally can't hear his parents arguing anymore, I bring Angus back. He trails after me up the stairs to his front door, all the while staring at his new jar.

I squat so I can see his too-wise eyes. He transfers his gaze from the jar to me. “I want you to remember something, no matter what happens,” I say. Angus nods, and I purse my lips before continuing, thinking of Los Angeles and dead flowers. “Some things change, but so many don't. There comes a time when you have to stop waiting for it. Okay?”

He blinks slowly, absorbing this. “Okay.”

“Bye, Angus.” Hoping he won't notice the wobble in my smile, I touch his back as he slips inside. The latch clicks, and I know I won't see Angus again. Not in this lifetime, at least. For a moment I study the dented doorknob that leads to him and his fragmented world, thinking I should ask Saul to replace it. Then I turn away.

It's getting late. I should go to bed. Really, there's so much I should be doing. Calling Georgie, telling my aunt and uncle that none of this is their fault. What I do in the end, though, is drift to my room and take out the present that's been waiting in my nightstand for weeks. And finally, I open it.