Where Silence Gathers (5 page)

Six

It's still raining as I drive to Briana's. The driver's window is stuck open an inch—I keep forgetting to ask Saul to fix it—and drops slip inside, trembling on the ceiling and falling. My hair and clothes stick to me. The windshield wipers do their best to clear the way, hurrying back and forth on the glass.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump
. The sound makes me think of another rainy day, another car. Mom's scream echoes through my memory.
William!

My hand flies to the radio knob, and I crank it so loud it's painful. Elvis drowns everything out.

Behind me, another car inches along. Raking my hair out of the way, I frown as I study it in the rearview mirror. Despite the downpour, the color and model are obvious. A brown Taurus. I don't recognize it, which is strange in Franklin. What's even stranger is Revenge's absence; I haven't seen him since art class. What is he up to? And why hasn't he ever—

Alexandra.

I stiffen.

Lightning flashes again, and Fear's face looms in the mirror. He winks at me, tucking a damp curl behind my ear, and then he's gone again. I slow down, trying to calm my racing heart. The Taurus's headlights brighten in a signal of irritation. I try to tell myself none of this is real, I'm just imagining things, but it's not working. I can
feel
something in the car with me. The air is warmer somehow, and suddenly it's harder to breathe.

Panicking, I guide my car to the side of the road and stop. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and concentrate on inhaling and exhaling. Something is wrong with me. This is all in my head. Did this ever happen to Dad? Did he ever go crazy?

I'm doing this for you.

Driven by some instinct, I lift my gaze. The Taurus is still there. I roll the window down further and wave, indicating it should go around. It doesn't move. “I don't need help,” I mutter, jerking my hand harder. Rain pelts my skin like needles.
“Go around.”

The headlights are blinding, reflecting off all my mirrors so that I can't see whoever is behind the wheel. They just sit there, the engine rumbling. Watching me. What the hell?

Another Emotion appears in the backseat. I ignore his touch as I reach for the handle and pull. The wind intensifies as the door begins to open.

Suddenly the Taurus lurches forward.

I yank the door shut just in time. The car roars by, and my side view mirror shatters. I scream. The Taurus smirks at me with its red taillights, then it's spinning onto the dirt turn that will eventually meet the county road.

For a few seconds all I'm capable of is sitting there, panting and staring at the splintered, plastic stub where my mirror used to be. Did that really just happen? After another minute I fumble for my phone and dial the first number that takes no thought or effort. There's a
click
, a female voice in my ear. My brain recognizes it. “Briana,” I whimper, pressing a hand to my face just to prove that this is all real.

“Alex? What's wrong?”

The sound of her voice brings me back to myself. She's worried. I realize I'm trembling and I close my eyes. “N-nothing. I just c-called to tell you I'm on my way.”

There's a pause. I can practically see her, analyzing the words and deciding the best course of action. She must decide to accept this. For now. “Okay,” she says finally. “I just got home myself, so I'll be in the kitchen. Do pizza rolls sound good?”

I swallow. The idea of food makes me want to vomit. “They sound great.”

“See you in a little bit, then!” she chirps.

We hang up. But I don't immediately move to change gears.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump
. My gaze falls on my backpack, hiding in the crevice under the glove box. The zipper is undone, exposing a glimpse of plaid. Without thinking about it, I lean down and grab it. A button snags. I tug at it, strangely desperate, and it comes free. The rain continues to soak me through the opening to my left, so cold I'm losing feeling, but that's okay. I slump in the seat and hold Dad's shirt. It smells like mildew and attic. What did Dad use to smell like? I should know this, I should know this …

I'm clutching the material so tight that I feel it. Something in the pocket. Hard, rectangular, small. I dig it out and frown. A flash drive? But if it was in Dad's pocket this entire time, it means that he had it on the day he died. He was a miner. His business was in dirt and machines and darkness. Not computers or files. Why would he have this?

I need to know what's on it.

Fear's essence still hasn't entirely left me, but now the desire to find out all the secrets of Dad's flash drive pushes me into motion. I shift the gear into drive and slam on the gas. Mud and rocks spew from beneath the tires, and as my car picks up speed, the voice doesn't come back. I pass the turn that the Taurus vanished on and allow myself one glance. Trees lean over the road and angry clouds roll above it. The Taurus—and whoever was driving it—is long gone.

I face front, clenching my jaw. A few miles further, Briana's driveway appears on the right. Their crooked mailbox greets me, along with those faded letters on the side:
BRINKMAN
. Already I feel the tight sensation within me loosening, relaxing, unfurling. I don't bother with the blinker and guide my car into the narrow space.

Her house is as familiar to me as my own. It's tiny, the siding yellow and rotting, and the shingles on the roof are quietly disappearing with each year that goes by. The best part about it is the four-season porch attached to the front. During the summers, when it's so hot and muggy we feel like we're going to melt, we lie in there and turn a fan on. Bugs battle the screen while we drawl long words into the spinning blades, enjoying the effect it has on our voices. As kids, we'd pretend we were aliens visiting this strange and frightening planet.

Briana and I never had one of those memorable meetings or significant first words exchanged. She's just always been there. Our mothers were best friends. They went to high school together, they married around the same time, and then Briana and I were born two weeks apart. She arrived first, of course. Our friendship was preordained. It's the only thing I haven't fought against in the course of my life. Then Georgie moved to Franklin with her mom in third grade and we accepted her into the fold.

I park, turn the key, and jump out. The rain has let up, but not much. I wipe more water from my eyes and make the bolt to the door, backpack thumping against my side. There's no truck in the driveway, which means Briana's dad isn't back from the general store yet. After the mines closed, he was one of the lucky few who managed to get a job in town. Almost everyone else drives the fifty miles to the tire factory in Pasco. No one can move, though, because property in Franklin doesn't sell anymore. Foreclosures are another story.

There's a beat-up Buick parked next to the garage, which means Briana's brother Ethan is back from one of his frequent trips. Everyone knows he's a dealer, but people love their vices in these parts, so he doesn't get turned in.

I enter without knocking. A
whoosh
of air announces my presence. Or at least, it should. Dropping my bag—
thud
—I shut the door behind me and pull off my soaking jacket. Someone comes out of the kitchen and walks toward me. Ethan.

“Hey,” he says around a mouthful of food, a bag of chips in his hand. He looks like his father, with ruddy skin and heavy-lidded eyes.

“Hey,” I say back. He goes into the basement without another word.

Sounds drift out of the living room, a combination of clicking and voices that must be from the ancient television. I put my jacket on one of the hooks on the wall and wring my hair out on the rug, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of whoever is watching. Francis, Briana's mom, is standing in front of the wide window. She doesn't seem to notice me as she bends over a pot of dirt. The wheel on the show she's not paying attention to spins again, emitting noise that's almost similar to the rain outside.
Click-click-click-click
.

Francis must sense my presence, suddenly, because she turns around and straightens. “Oh, Alex,” she says in soft surprise. “I didn't hear you come in.” It's strange how much she and Briana look alike, yet how drastically different. Time and hardship have marked Francis.

“How are you?” I ask, smiling.

Sighing, she flaps a hand at the pot. “Still can't keep a plant alive to save my life. Otherwise we're all fine, I guess. What about you? How are Saul and Missy?”

Something brushes against my leg, distracting me, and I glance down at their tabby cat. Einstein cries for attention so I bend to scratch his chin. “They're—”

“Hey,” Briana says from behind. I start. Standing in the shadows, my friend inclines her head in the direction of the kitchen. “I'm set up in here.”

Before I can say anything, she walks down the hallway. “Maybe try giving it less water,” I suggest to Francis. She purses her lips and looks at the pot again, contemplating this. Quickly I grab my bag and follow Briana. The sounds of the television fade away.

I wait until we're alone to ask, “So, did you talk to Rachel Porter today?” The smell of something spicy fills the kitchen.

Briana goes to the oven and opens the little door to peek inside. She shrugs, but the light that heats the pizza rolls illuminates her tight expression. “I didn't have a chance” is all she says.

That's not what's bothering her, though; I saw how she was looking at Francis. I don't know what to say. Their relationship has always confused me. All I know is that sometimes, when Briana looks at Francis, Fear materializes. And I wonder if she's terrified that she'll end up like her mother.

I used to think that inheriting traits from our parents wasn't real. Now, though?

I'm doing this for you.

To occupy my hands, I take out everything I need for the essay. But I can't wait; the flash drive rests in the center of my palm, dry and warm. The last key to Dad that I have. I pull Briana's laptop toward me from where it's been humming on the counter, and I uncurl my fist.

There's a clatter—Briana pulling the pan of pizza rolls out—and then she notices what I'm doing. “What is that?” She takes a spatula out of a drawer and begins transferring the rolls onto a plate. Crumbs scatter across the surface of it.

The laptop was asleep. I tap the touchpad and impatiently wait for the screen to come up. “A flash drive,” I mutter, distracted. My knee bounces. Impatience, short-haired and stocky, gives me a hard shove. Briana doesn't seem to see the way I jerk forward, scowling. No point in whipping around and punching him in the face, though; he's already vanished.

“ … on it?” Briana is asking.

“I don't know.” The computer is still waking up, and I watch the screen intently, but then I realize Briana is waiting for me to go on. “I found it. I think it was my dad's.”

The laptop finally finishes. Without waiting to see what my friend's reaction will be to this, I plug the flash drive into the jack. It takes another minute to load, and then a message pops up on the screen. My heart sinks. “There's a password,” I say, perplexed. Why would Dad put a password on anything?

“Oh, well, that's easy.” Briana circles the counter to lean over me and types
ALEX
.

The computer thinks for a moment, then the box quivers and erases the dots. Wrong. I try my mother's name:
TRACEY
. Next, my brother's:
HUNTER
. My dad's birthday.
Our first and only dog's name. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “Maybe ask your aunt and uncle?” Briana suggests.

It comes over me without warning—a fierce ache to be in motion. Acting on impulse, I unplug the flash drive. “Look, sorry to make this so short, but I better go. I haven't been home yet, and Saul and Missy have been on edge lately.” The pizza rolls are still on the plate, untouched.

“Oh, okay.” Briana watches me pack up my things. “What about the essay?”

I shove the flash drive in my pocket and shrug. “I can work on it later. Thanks for offering to help.”

“Of course. See you tomorrow?” Her anxious eyes follow me to the door and I mumble a vague response. It feels like I'm always leaving someone. Funny, since I was the only one who stayed six years ago.

Outside, the rain has stopped. I plunge into the cold, forgetting my jacket. “Alex—” Briana calls. She wants to ask questions, demand answers that I can't give. Almost as expertly as the Emotions, I disappear.

There are two missed calls on my phone. Both Missy.

The drive home is less eventful. No voices, no Taurus, no Fear. By the time I get to the apartment, it's dark. The woods around the building are full of swaying shadows, and the only lights on are coming from Angus's window and the one over the shop door. Fear stalks me up the stairs, all the way to the narrow deck and around the corner. His hand tangles in my hair, brushes the tender skin of my neck. I yank free and reach the door, slamming it in his face.

Just like at Briana's house, noise blares from the living room and a blue glow covers everything. I set my bag and keys on the floor next to my boots. Missy sits on the couch, her knees covered by a blanket. One hand clutches the remote and the other rests limply in her lap. She's not wearing makeup and her hair is in a ponytail. She looks … weary. And alone. I try not to make comparisons to Francis.

“Where's Saul?” I hover in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.