Where Silence Gathers (4 page)

In the distance, a flock of geese honk as they cross the sky. Winter really is behind us, despite the chill in the air.

Uncle Saul steps closer. “Don't stay out here too long, okay?” He kisses my temple. His lips are dry. “Oh, and you get to clean the attic. As a consequence for taking my rum. We'll give you a pass on school. This time.” With that, he leaves.

He doesn't look back. But I do. I watch him return to the apartment, return to Missy, and feel the darkness rise inside me again. The rocket isn't here. It's been years since that summer. Dad couldn't find it. What makes me think I can?

I can find anything that's been hidden … but I can't find what's been lost.

The sun is nearly gone now. The moon is a faded crescent, struggling to emerge. There's the sound of that damn clock again, unstoppable and unapologetic.
Dong. Dong. Dong
.

Time to go.

Four

The car vents breathe into the stillness. I sit in the driver's seat, tapping my finger against the steering wheel. I can't seem to get warm no matter how high the heat is set. My body is ice, and my mind is a frozen lump that can't let go of the sound of that voice I heard earlier today:
Alexandra.

“Am I crazy?” I whisper, mostly to the stars.

Revenge turns toward me, the leather creaking beneath him. “Probably not. If you're crazy, what does that make me?” He winks.

It's impossible not to notice his outfit. Revenge has been alive for a long time, and sometimes he gets nostalgic. Today, it seems, he misses the Civil War era. The uniform of a Union soldier gleams in the glow from the radio. His hair looks gelled. Did he dress up for this?

I smile faintly and adjust the vents again. “You're a raving lunatic, Revenge.”

“True. You still like me though.”

He doesn't wait to see what I'll say. After all, Revenge is confident in his place and where he stands. We both focus on the house. Nate Foster isn't home, but his wife is. We watch her through the dining room window again. She's in the kitchen, in front of the sink. A curtain of brown hair falls over her shoulder as she leans over and puts a plate into the dishwasher. Jennifer Foster looks … sad. As if she's lost something in all of this, too.

My smile dies. Something in my chest hardens, and an Emotion shimmers behind me, touching me with tender finger­tips. I reach for the door handle, and Revenge instantly begins to fade so he can reappear beside me.

“No. Stay here,” I say. I don't know why. All I know is that I want to go up to that house without him.

Now a frown tugs down the corners of his generous mouth. “Alex—”

“Please.”

Something in my voice must be different, because Revenge studies me for a moment, then nods. He doesn't look happy about it, but he nods.

I leave the warmth of the car, slamming the door behind me. The road sparkles with frost and wind whistles through the trees. I cup my elbows and slink through the shadows. That wide window watches me come closer, closer, as if it can see all the pain I try so hard to keep locked inside. I stop inches away from the glass, off to the side so Jennifer can't spot me. My heart pounds. I want to touch the pane, to prove that I'm capable of doing more than waiting and thinking and hurting.

A sound rips through the quivering hush. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.

Sobs.

Disregarding caution completely, I stand on tiptoe to peer in. Jennifer is right where she was before. In this moment, though, her hands grip the edge of the counter as if it's all that's keeping her up. Her head is bowed. Her shoulders shake.

I ease back and press against the house, fixing my gaze on a tree a few yards away. There's a new sensation spreading through the center of my chest now, a tightness, like there's a hand reaching through the skin and bone and muscle and trying to crush my heart.

Compassion.

The Emotion herself must have arrived without my noticing, and if Jennifer Foster weren't within hearing range, I would tell this creature how much I loathe her. Her expression is pained as she brushes a strand of hair out of my face. She's a dark-skinned Emotion with disquieting eyes.

Twisting away, I focus on Jennifer again. Compassion steps back and slowly diminishes. Jennifer isn't crying anymore. I watch her take a breath and straighten her shoulders. I can't help but think that she wasn't in the car the night Nate Foster shattered my family. She didn't make the mistake. He did.

Seconds later, something else moves out of the corner of my eye. I jump, facing the threat. The instant my eyes meet his, though, I forget to be alarmed and just stare.

“You,” I whisper after a long, long pause. Every thought about Jennifer Foster flaps away into the night until there's only him.

The Emotion stands there, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hi, Alexandra.”

For a few seconds neither of us speaks. I keep staring, and he just waits patiently. “Who are you?” I finally demand, careful to keep my voice low. But a part of me knows exactly who he is—has known since the first moment I saw him across the clearing. And if I'm really honest with myself, he's part of the reason I came back tonight.

I'm not feeling particularly honest right now, though.

A lock of dark hair falls into his eyes. Where Revenge would grin or wink or offer some brash statement, this Emotion just smiles. His skin is pale in the moonlight. “I'm Forgiveness,” he says.

I smile back disdainfully. “Of course you are.” And it's only fitting that he'd be just as tempting as Revenge. Even more so, because he possesses both that magnetic force and the beauty to go along with it. His eyes are darker than mine, but they're blue—what I would imagine the deepest part in the ocean to be like. His features are noble, with that square jaw and a slight indent in his chin. His hair is brown and wild, curling around his ears and neck. He's wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw him: jeans and that colorless T-shirt.

I refuse to let how much his presence affects me show. “Picked a hell of a time to show up,” I comment, transferring my attention back to Jennifer. I almost prefer Compassion.

He regards me with an unfathomable expression. “I've been waiting for you to let me show up, actually.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I frown and turn to face him against my better judgment.

Forgiveness doesn't answer, and all I can think now is that he had such a sad countenance. We're standing closer than I realized. Unlike Revenge, he doesn't smell like chocolate or anything sweet and tempting. His scent is distinctly … minty. Yet still alluring, somehow.

I grit my teeth and take a deliberate step back. “So, what, you're here to save me?”

He doesn't move. “Only one person can do that,” he answers. His meaning is all too clear.

Scoffing, I swing away and start for the car. I've had enough of Jennifer and her pain, Compassion and her touch, Forgiveness and his disturbing eyes. “Franklin already has a pastor. Granted, I haven't been to church in years, but if I was interested in sermons or saving, I'd go there.” Leaves quiver in the wind, and moonlight filters through the trees to guide my way.

Forgiveness is walking beside me, unfazed by the pace I've set. His long legs match my short strides. He doesn't respond, and this infuriates me further.

“What do you know about any of this?” I make a vague gesture at the house. A branch snaps beneath my foot and I falter, glancing back to see if Jennifer heard it. She's back to loading the dishwasher, still looking lost in her own home. There's an Emotion behind her, half-concealed so I don't know which one.

Forgiveness doesn't reply, but a breeze stirs his hair and I remember him.

“What do you know about anything?” I add, scowling.

He steps closer. My traitorous heart picks up speed. Forgiveness's eyes are pits I could fall into and never be able to climb back out of.

“I know that you feel an emptiness inside of you, Alexandra Tate, that you're trying so hard to fill,” he says quietly. “I know that you cry yourself to sleep sometimes, but you're always careful to make sure your aunt and uncle don't hear. I know you pretend that the boy next door really is your little brother. And I know that Revenge—”

“Stop.” I'm shaking. Resentment flashes and fades, his palm cool on my back. “If you were trying to persuade me to do something, that was the wrong technique.”

“I'm not trying to persuade you to do anything.” A familiar silhouette appears on the ground beside us—Revenge—but Forgiveness doesn't take his eyes off my face. “I'm trying to help you.”

“I don't need any help.” With that, I walk away from both of them.

This time, Forgiveness doesn't follow me. Strangely enough, Revenge doesn't either. I hear their voices, low and indiscernible.

Seething, feeling as if my insides are going to explode from some chemical combination that's not supposed to blend together, I get into the car. The two of them are still standing there. I grip the steering wheel and glare at their profiles, despite the fact that neither is paying attention to me. It's strange, seeing Revenge and Forgiveness together. Like the brightest dawn and the darkest time of night. Whatever they're talking about, they disagree on something. Revenge's fists are clenched in a rare display of aggression, and though Forgiveness seems relaxed, his stance also has a tense quality to it.

They're talking about me.

Nate Foster's release has opened a door that can't be closed. Voices. Forgiveness. Change.

As I reach for the keys dangling from the ignition, I allow myself one more glimpse at these creatures who are tearing me apart. I think I know what I'm going to call them now. They're not Emotions, or Elements, or anything else literal and simple.

They're Choices.

The cold wakes me.

I turn on my side and frown at the open window, ignoring the present on my nightstand that's still unopened. The filmy curtains Missy picked out flutter in the breeze. Did I leave it open? Blearily, I stand and shuffle over to it to pull at the frame. It sticks. “Damn it,” I swear under my breath. Shivering, I stand on tiptoe and put my weight on it. Nothing.

Alexandra.

This time it comes on a gust of air. I leap back, tripping on the edge of the rug. Pain radiates through my bones as I land, and then I'm scrambling back as if something is crawling through the window after me. My back hits the edge of the mattress.

Fear bursts in front of me, tapping my nose before I can recoil, and then he's gone again. I stare at the sill, half-expecting a hand to clamp around it. Nothing appears.

“No,” I moan, clutching my head. This isn't real. I'm dreaming. I tell myself that monsters don't exist, that Sammy Thorn is nothing but a story fabricated to frighten children into staying in their beds.

Alexandra.

Again, right in my ear. I close my eyes and focus on breathing. “Where are you?”

The mines. The mines.

This isn't happening. It isn't. “Leave me alone.” A whimper escapes me, and I despise how weak it makes me feel.

Enough. On trembling legs, I stand. My boxers are sticky with sweat. Every instinct in me shrieks to hide under the covers or run to Saul and Missy. Instead, I take one step after the other toward the window that I didn't open. The voice doesn't speak again, but there's a thickness to the air, a sense that I'm not completely alone. I pause a foot away, cursing the stars in all their safety up there when I'm trapped here.

Yet another Emotion appears in my room. I jump, ready to scream, but the sound halts in my throat when I see his kind face. The touch is equally gentle, almost encouraging.
“Real courage is embracing the fear,” he says quietly. He
reminds me of Forgiveness in his solemnity. No games, no facades. Just the truth of who he is.

Then Courage pulls away, offering me a small smile before vanishing.

I shut the window.

Five

The light above my head hums. It's faint, the brightened wires flaring and fading uncertainly. In hopes of letting some more light in, I pull a stack of boxes away from the round window above our heads. Dust flies up and I sneeze.

“I didn't think cleaning the attic was much of a punishment, honestly,” Revenge remarks from the other side of the room. “But now I totally get it.” He slides a pair of spectacles on and grins at me with huge, magnified eyes.

I give him a dirty look. I'm a little annoyed with him; so far he's refused to answer even one of my questions about Forgiveness. Like whether he has the same rules as Revenge does, or why he's never appeared before, or why he's appeared at all.

“A little help would be nice, you know,” I snap. My friend doesn't grace this with a response, and I kick at a crate full of yarn. “There's so much junk here. Their entire lives can be summed up just by looking around.” I pick up an ancient children's book and flip through it. The yellowed pages rustle in the stillness. “Neither of them has ever been out of Franklin.”

Revenge tosses aside a gigantic hat. He bends, rooting around in a different trunk. His back is to me. “And you?”

“Me, what?” I pull the flaps of a box open.

There's a
thud
, then the sound of something shattering. Hurriedly, Revenge slams the lid of the trunk down and turns around. “Do you plan on getting out? Like Georgie does?” He mock shudders as he shrugs an ancient coat on. “Can you imagine her in Hollywood?” Next he stoops to retrieve the hat and plop it on his head. He looks like some eccentric bag lady.

I smile a little, peering inside the box. Just old photo albums. I reach for another box. “I've thought about it, I guess. But where would I go? It's not like I'm good at anything. I can't play piano like Saul or get perfect grades like Briana.” Dust covers the top of this box. I use my sleeve to wipe some of it away. All it says on it is
WILLIAM TATE
. My pulse quickens.

But the contents are just odds and ends—his old mining helmet, some folders and tax records. There's an ancient newspaper with a front-page article about Sammy Thorn. Dad was always a bit fascinated with the stories about Thorn, since all of it happened when he was a little boy.

Despite my own prick of interest, I keep digging. At the bottom of the box I find a square Ziploc bag, holding what looks like a pair of jeans and a shirt. I frown, touching the plastic. Why would these clothes be—

The realization knocks the air out of me. The truth is shown in the plaid pattern of the shirt, nearly camouflaged by the red squares. Stains. Speckles. Blood.

This is what he was wearing the day he died.

“ … think you could figure something out,” Revenge is saying, his tone dry. “You're not exactly a delicate flower.”

I don't answer. I lean back, still on my knees, just staring down at the shirt. Why would they keep this? As if my fingers have a mind of their own, I find myself opening the bag and pulling the shirt out. The material is still soft. Where the dried blood is, though, it's hard. I touch it and my insides quake.
Dad
.

“Hey, Alex. Look at this.”

I lift my head, dazed. Revenge is grinning again, standing beside a short, shining box. Standing up, I move toward him, the floorboards moaning beneath my weight. I peer in and see it's an old record player.

Revenge has already figured out how to work it … or maybe he was there when it was invented. He expertly slides a record out of its paper case, flips it over with the tips of his fingers, and places it in the center of the player. There's a brief sound, like static on a radio. Some old song comes on, the words so garbled I can't make them out, but it's better than Elvis. Revenge backs away, moving to the rhythm. There's a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What are you doing?” I frown, loosening my hold on the shirt. Revenge raises his brows at me, still bobbing his head and snapping his fingers. Then, as I watch, he begins to swing his narrow hips.

“Oh, my god.” Forgetting what's in my hands, I take a step back and stare. Revenge smirks and lifts his arms, giving it all he's worth.

Then he reaches for me. I clap my hand over my mouth to smother a shriek of laughter. “No!” I dart away. “I won't!”

But Revenge advances. He looks utterly ridiculous, still wearing his Civil War coat and twitching to the music.

“Weren't you around when the first human danced?” I taunt him, using a rocking chair as a shield. “Shouldn't you know how to do it?”

He growls. “I won't tolerate insolence from a little human!”

“Not so little anymore,” I retort.

We run toward the window, and the space is so confined there's nowhere to go. Revenge lunges for me and I squeal, sidestepping him. My back hits the wall. Revenge quickly plants his hands on either side of me, panting. I could escape, duck under his arms and run again, but I don't. I smile up at him, tracing his familiar features with my gaze. I ache to trace them with my fingers. To quench the impulse, I clench them into painful fists around the shirt.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Revenge's eyes darken. The space between us suddenly feels thick and hot. Electric. Neither of us seems to be breathing. Images race through me, something that only happens when Revenge is this close. A girl with a fierce expression stuffing a note in a locker, a man in bed with a woman while the picture on the nightstand depicts him with someone else, a boy just a little older than me loosening the spokes on the wheel of a dirt bike.

“You're right,” Revenge says, bringing my attention back to him. To us. “You're not little anymore.” Is it my imagination, or is there a catch to his voice?

I've stopped laughing.

“Alex! Breakfast!”

We both jump. “Coming,” I manage. It comes out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I clear my throat and say it louder. “Coming!”

Even from up here, I can smell the familiar aroma of burnt toast. But I don't move. The record crackles. Silence creeps through the attic. Distantly I wonder if I somehow missed hearing the town clock. Revenge lifts his hand, like he's about to touch my cheek. Every thought about clocks or breakfast evaporates. My heart stops.

“Better get down there,” Revenge says. And he backs away. He doesn't stay long enough to see Disappointment—a stick-thin boy with a head of wild curls—pat my arm, almost in sympathy. I don't acknowledge him. Instead I leave him there in the shadows of a thousand wasted memories and creak down the narrow stairs.

It isn't until I reach the kitchen doorway that I realize I'm still clutching my father's shirt.

“This is pointless.”

“Just try, Georgie.”

“No one is going to care about my crappy artwork when I'm a star!” She lifts her head to glare at Briana. “And it's not like UW will take back your acceptance if you make anything less than perfect either, you know.”

Briana doesn't respond to this.

Outside, it's raining. It sounds like a stadium full of people are tapping their fingers against the windows on the other side of the classroom. Briana, Georgie, and I sit around one of the tables in the art room. Each of us has a pile of clay—unformed, simple, just an idea of an idea. I still haven't touched mine.

“Alex.” At the sound of my name, I lift my head. Our eyes meet and my friend smiles. Briana, always smiling, even when there's nothing to smile about. “How are you? We've been worried. You didn't respond to any texts.”

Georgie snorts. She punches her clay and the table shakes. “Worried? Try freaked out. You totally lost it.”

“Georgie.” Briana's voice is uncharacteristically sharp.

“What?” Georgie glances at me. “It's true, isn't it?”

I envy her view of the world. Black and white, right and wrong, truth and lies. And the way she's scowling at me is justified; after all, I've told them nothing. Given them nothing. They don't know that I found my father's blood-speckled shirt and slept with it last night. They don't know I'm hearing voices or seeing Revenge and Forgiveness. And they don't know I go to Nate Foster's house and sit in my car with a gun in the glove box.

Silence has fallen over our table. Across the room, our teacher walks from student to student. He'll reach us last.

The floor suddenly rumbles. Briana turns toward the window. The gray light of sky slants over her face, highlighting freckles I never knew she had. “It's the first real storm this spring,” she says softly. Her clay is already becoming something. A bird, it looks like. “Kind of nice, isn't it?” Rachel Porter is at a table across the room from us, and I see Briana glance at her.

Lightning flashes as I'm about to answer, illuminating the entire room. Freckles, expressions, corners. No, not just corners. I blink, and suddenly I'm remembering. Remembering something I didn't know I'd forgotten.

Thunder rumbles through the tiny apartment, and I almost miss the sound of the front door opening. “Dad!” I exclaim from my place on the rug. I'm about to drop the book in my hands and jump up when I see his face. I pause, and Apprehension kneels next to me. Worry appears a moment later. I look at their faces as their hands settle on my head, my shoulder.

Watching them with narrowed eyes, Dad loosens his tie. “Don't touch her,” Dad slurs, stumbling toward us. His foot snags the edge of the rug and he stumbles. He stays there, leaning against the wall as if he doesn't have the strength to stand.

“Honey? What's wrong?” Mom touches his arm but he shakes her off, muttering. I
t sounds like he's saying, “Get off of me.” But Dad would never say anything like that. He lurches again, tripping over a chair. Mom is quick and she catches him, even when he keeps trying to push her away. She whispers something in his ear, something she doesn't want me to hear. But I do: “Alex.”

Dad lifts his head and focuses red-rimmed eyes on me. “I'm doing this for you,” he says. I tremble and open my mouth to ask Mom what's wrong with him. Before I can, she's guiding him out of view, toward their room at the end of the hall. All the while he's still talking under his breath. I stay where I am and clutch my book so hard the spine creaks. I can't hear the words. No, I can't hear any of them but one. He's repeating it over and over. My name.

Alex. Alex. Alex.

Then the door clicks shut, and everything is quiet.

Lightning flashes again, but this time it does nothing, doesn't reveal answers to the questions this memory brought to the surface.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye, a familiar flash of red, and I turn. Revenge is sitting on top of a vacant desk, his eyes on me.
You knew
, I want to say. Maybe not everything, but I must have told him something when I was younger. When I said that I'd never seen the wild, non-perfect side of Dad, he'd asked,
Don't you remember?

I want to force Revenge to tell me what I should remember. I want to leap up and drive ninety miles an hour until I get to Andrew's office so I can ask him what he knows about any of this.

But Briana is here, her shoulder pressed to mine as if she senses that I'm cracking inside. Georgie says something that I don't hear, and Briana responds. Then, “Do you want to come over tonight?” she asks me. “I could help you with that essay.” Neither of them seems to have noticed that they lost me for a few seconds.

“Tonight?” I repeat faintly. Tonight I'd planned on going to Nate Foster's. On watching him through that window and thinking about that gun. Maybe it isn't such a bad idea to escape everything for a few hours. “Yeah, okay.”

Before Briana can answer, Mr. Kim is stopping beside our table. He surveys our work and of course sees that my clay is still just a square. “What are you making, Alex?” he asks with a smile.

I'm doing this for you.
Slowly,
I focus on Mr. Kim's face. His smile begins to fade as the seconds tick by. Georgie waits, Briana waits, Revenge waits. Everyone's waiting.

To avoid them all, I stare down at the clay. “I haven't decided yet.”