Where Silence Gathers (8 page)

“Protect me from what?” I ask, striving to keep the question even. When he doesn't respond, my nostrils flare and I lose the last of my control. “
From what?
” Still he remains silent. “Does this have something to do with my dad?” I ask next, hoping to get
something
out of him. Anything.

At the mention of Dad, Andrew's entire body tenses. He clutches the doorknob so tightly it seems like it should shatter. “Please. I'm begging you. Leave this alone.”

Leave this alone? I'm not capable of that. And I especially hate the feeling that I didn't even know my own father. “You might as well tell me what's on the flash drive, Andrew. I'm going to find out eventually, with or without your help.” I shrug, as if it's so simple.

He lunges for me.

I'm so shocked that I react too late, and my back slams into his bookshelves. He's crushing my hand, grappling with my fingers and trying to pry them apart. There's a frantic gleam in his eyes that I've never seen before. Calm, logical Andrew is gone, leaving this stranger in his place. I try to shove him away, screaming, and when he only presses closer I kick his shin as hard as I can. Andrew cries out and jumps back, holding his leg. I start to run past him, but he recovers and yanks me back. I swing around and punch him in the face. Something
crunches
. Now Andrew is the one screaming, recoiling and cupping his face.

I rush for the doorway. A woman nearly collides with me, and her eyes widen when she sees Andrew. “What on earth—”

Blood runs down his mouth and chin and he stretches his hand in my direction again. Gasping for breath, I jerk into motion again and dart around the woman. “Alex! Alex, wait!
Please
!” Andrew keeps shouting my name, but I'm already gone. His cries are so loud that they echo down the hallway, ricocheting off the walls.

But the sound of my heart breaking is louder.

Ten

Nate Foster has been sitting in his car for seven minutes.

He doesn't notice me on the street, parked in the shadows. I watch him with a frown. He doesn't move, just stares straight ahead at the garage door. As though he sees something there that I can't. Before the end, I want him to see my family on that blank surface. The same way I do.

His wife is waiting for him, I can tell; she keeps pacing through the house and glancing at something out of sight. A clock, probably. Sometimes I wish I could destroy every clock in the world, just so I can't keep track of how much time has passed since I heard my brother's laugh.

It doesn't make sense, that Forgiveness appears beside me a moment later. I can't deal with him tonight. Not after what happened with Andrew. Tonight I'm just fury wrapped in skin and muscle, about to explode any second. The gun feels warm in my hand, like an old friend.

Forgiveness must sense this, because he doesn't try to talk sense to me. For six more minutes we exist in silence. With Revenge, the wordlessness is painful and thrilling, full of maybes. With Forgiveness, it's just painful. Like I'm being torn in half or pulled toward something. I don't have to look at him to know that he's gazing at me with those eyes of his. Wide, blue, fathomless. Shining, as if he understands my pain.

“Hunter was four,” I whisper suddenly. The words just slip out, as though they've been waiting under my tongue, patiently biding their time for the right moment. I'm helpless to stop them. “I remember he was going through this phase where he was just absolutely obsessed with airplanes. I would get so mad at him, because he'd leave these plastic models all over the floor, and I'd step on them all the time.”

After I've spoken, a stillness surrounds us, and it feels as though my heart has finally stopped its painful beat. I don't let myself wonder what the cause of this is: speaking of Hunter after all these years … or Forgiveness.

The stars don't exist right now. Clouds hide them, and even the moon struggles to be seen. I shift so I'm closer to the windshield, trying to find that faint glow so at least one person can acknowledge it. Then Forgiveness ruins the quiet by murmuring, “Tell me more.”

The sound of his voice makes my blood quicken. “No.” I focus on that door.

“Why not?”

“I'm not playing this game with you.”

“It's not a game, Alexandra.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“It's a conversation.”

“Not now. Not with you.” My grip tightens on the gun. Of course the Choice would show up now. It's a test, a temptation, a splash of ink on the page I've already written. In front of me, Nate Foster waits. It would be so easy. I close my eyes and imagine doing it.
Bam. Thud. Blood
. I could. I should. I will.

I stiffen when Nate Foster finally gets out of his car. He tugs at his tie—I don't know where he works now, but before the accident he was a manager at the factory—and walks toward the front door as if his shoes are lined with lead. There aren't any Emotions to give him away. Yellow light slants over the lawn as the door opens, and I reach for my own door handle. This is my chance. Here it is. Going, going. Why can't I
move
?

Then the door is closing, and Nate Foster is gone. Missed my chance. Again.

Damn it. Exhaling through my teeth, I ease away from the handle and go back to tapping that erratic beat on my thigh. My hold loosens and tightens on the gun some more. Loosens and tightens. I feel Forgiveness's gaze. “Do you ever just sit still?” he asks me, sounding genuinely curious.

“Nope.” I glare so hard at the door now that I don't understand how it hasn't burst into flames. Where is Revenge? Why isn't he the one beside me, urging me to choose?

Inside, Jennifer whirls, probably hearing the door. Her flowered skirt twists around her thighs. Foster brushes past her and enters the kitchen, heading straight for a cupboard next to the fridge. Jennifer makes a sharp gesture, Frustration and Worry hovering around her. Foster responds by pulling out a bottle, brown liquid sloshing within the glass. He walks past her again. Jennifer is still trying to get a response from him—she's one of those people who talks with her hands. I don't like that I know this small detail about a Foster.

Forgiveness inclines his head, shifting slightly. The leather seat creaks and mint drifts over me. “May I offer you some advice?” he asks. When I don't respond he continues anyway. “You can't trust my kind. We're volatile … and we're not human. We don't have the same laws or instincts you do.” His voice is always serious, but there's an extra gravity to the statement.

Not human
. As if I didn't already know that. A bitter smile curves my lips. “And what are those laws and instincts?” Finally I look at him.

“To protect the ones we love.” His gaze is unwavering. “Our ideas of right and wrong are too different.”

My jaw clenches, and somehow it becomes a battle of wills. Whoever looks away first is weakest. What Forgiveness doesn't know is that I adore-hate his eyes. They're so sad they make me remember what I've lost, but they're so bottomless I could fall forever. I lied; being around Forgiveness is thrilling, too, no matter how much I want to deny it.

“You're talking about Revenge,” I comment, hoping my face doesn't betray my thoughts. Picturing him, I put my finger on the trigger. My best friend wouldn't tell me what to do, of course, or let me touch him—that would be interfering—but just the proximity to him would be enough. Just enough. I'd have the strength to walk up to that door and finish it. Why doesn't he come?

“You don't have to do this.” Forgiveness's voice is gentle, just like everything else about him.

“Yes, I do,” I hiss. It's unfair, how my stomach flutters when he moves his hand closer to mine. He really is a beautiful creature, no matter how much I want to deny it. Too bad he's such an ugly concept. “I didn't summon you. You don't belong here.”

Forgiveness doesn't relent. “Part of you wants me here.” He leans toward me, as if to prove this point. His eyelashes, long and dark, brush against the tips of his cheekbones when he slowly blinks. As usual, he's wearing that white T-shirt. It's an obvious effort to seem human, to appear touchable and pure. And even the knowledge that he's anything but doesn't make resisting him easy. I know that if I choose him … the shifting tectonic plates within me might finally go still.

I can't let that happen.

So I turn away again, gritting my teeth, and resume glaring at the bright window. Forgiveness doesn't sigh or try to pull me back. He just eases into his seat again and watches me while I watch them.

“Do you want to know what Nate is doing right now?” he asks after another pause. I don't respond. He tells me anyway. “He's in his study, drinking a glass of brandy. He's tired. His wife yelled at him for being so late and not calling. The real reason she's angry, though, is because she's scared she's lost the man she knew. The man she loved.”

“Shut up,” I spit. “Just shut up.” My finger curls around the trigger even more, and I'm shaking.

“But she'll forgive him. She always does. I usually feel her summons sometime in the middle of the night, when she's cold and lonely.”

“If I could put a bullet through your head, I would. Gladly.”

The threat doesn't affect Forgiveness. He rests his hand on the gear shift, a silent way to let me know that all of this could be over and behind me if I would just give in. Let go of the anger and summon him for real, let that hand touch my shoulder or my cheek or my fingers.

My phone is next to Forgiveness's wrist. It's off now, since I got tired of dodging Andrew's calls. He's been calling nonstop since I left the college.

“You've never killed before, Alexandra,” Forgiveness reminds me. “Do you really think you want to?”

It's my name on his lips that does it.
Alexandra
. My mind goes back to another place, another time, another person who used to call me that. Dad's voice echoes through the stillness.
No, Alexandra, this is C-sharp. Put your finger there. Yes, good. Okay, now, do you remember the scale?
No, not anymore. Those black and white keys no longer represent music; they represent what should have been. Everything that was ripped away on that rainy night.

I turn to stone as I say, “Yes. I do.” The intensity of Forgiveness's presence wanes as my fierce longing for revenge increases. The Choice himself finally appears in the backseat.

“Alex.” Revenge greets me in silken tones. Finally. Defiant and desperate, I stretch out my hand toward him, willing him to hear my thoughts.
I choose you. Touch me. Take this unbearable uncertainty away. Help me.

But instead of ending it, Revenge draws back. Out of reach. Shocked, I stare at him. My friend avoids my gaze and whispers, “You're not ready yet. You haven't really decided.”

Another silence ebbs through the car, this one so thick it clogs my throat. My breath comes in jagged pieces. In. Out. In. Out. Forgiveness and Revenge just wait, and they don't even bother to acknowledge each other. They want me to choose? I laugh. “Fine!” A gust of warm air shocks me; I've opened the door. I choose neither. I choose my family.

“Alexandra, don't.” For the first time, Forgiveness's expression seems strained; his mouth purses. I'm rigid now, my vision blurred as the urges tear each other apart. I can see myself opening that door and going in. Hunting down Nate Foster's study, finding him behind a large oak desk. He'd see me, and he would drop that glass of brandy in shock. It would shatter on the floor, into a thousand glittering pieces. The same way he broke me. I'd raise the gun, and I wouldn't waver. Maybe I'd say something. Words that had meaning, about poetic justice or vindicated retribution. A single moment. That's all it would take.

“Alexandra,” Forgiveness repeats. I'd nearly forgotten him. His lullaby voice jars me from my thoughts. Involuntarily, I look at him again.

There's no chance to prepare myself. Whatever sharp response I had dies as those melancholy eyes manage to pierce my armor, and I'm falling into him again. His beauty is a net that ensnares. His wild hair, his nose that's long and noble, his jaw elegant and defined. And his lips …

I will never, ever feel those lips.

What's happening to me? It must be the choice. I'm going crazy. “Get out,” I manage. “Both of you.”

The order isn't so effective given the breathless quality that clings to it. I hate my weakness. I despise disappointing my family. But I keep hearing those words, and they stop me from taking the next step and walking up to that door.
The real reason she's angry, though, is because she's scared she's lost the man she knew. The man she loved.
Bile burns my throat.

I shut the door, lean over, and shove the gun back into the glove box. My glance flicks to the rearview mirror, where Revenge regards me with an indiscernible expression. Then he fades into nothing.

Somewhere in the trees, an owl calls. It reminds me that it's late. I try to summon Anger now, anything to keep the pain away, but the Emotion doesn't appear. There's only a small, wistful twinge in my chest.

The being in the passenger seat shifts. I'd almost forgotten he was here. Before I can think of something to say, Forgiveness's form begins to go transparent; he's preparing to leave, too. Which means that he's concluded I'm not going to use the gun tonight. Maybe I'm just not strong enough to do this.

I don't realize I've spoken out loud until Forgiveness says, “Maybe you're stronger than you realize.”

I wilt like a flower, still trying to hate him. “Why won't you just leave me alone?” I whisper. The moon disappears among the wisps of clouds and condensation creeps across the windshield from my breath.

No, not only from my breath. From his, too. I feel the heat emanating through his clothes as Forgiveness comes closer than he ever has before. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning, so when he answers me, the words are puffs of air on my cheek.

“Because you keep calling for me,” he whispers back.

Instant denial rises up, and I jerk around to argue.

But Forgiveness is gone.

There are no other cars when I get home. At first I'm worried that my aunt and uncle went out looking for me, fed up with the missed calls and unexplained absences. It takes me a moment to remember Missy's earlier text, informing me that Saul is playing poker with his buddies and she's doing a late shift answering the phone at the sheriff's station. Relieved, I get out of the car and climb the rickety stairs to the deck. Just as I'm about to turn the corner, though, something whines.

I jump and spin, pressing a hand to my chest. Fear stands next to me already, and he snorts when he sees it's just the stray, standing at the bottom of the steps. His form shimmers as he leaves, but I hardly notice. The starving dog gazes at me with those big eyes, and I clear my throat. “Hey, girl. What are you—”

She retreats. That's when I realize her hackles are raised and her teeth are bared. Before I can move or speak or blink, the stray bolts, and once again I lose her to the forest. After she's gone, I squint at the shadows.

Strange.

Mentally shrugging, I turn back around. At the door, my phone goes off. A text from Briana.
WHERE DID YOU GO TODAY?
She always spells every word out. Smiling wistfully, I text an empty apology back. There's also a text from Georgie. It isn't so polite. I don't respond.

I wrap my hand around the doorknob and the hinges let out a whine; the door is ajar.
Not right
, instinct whispers. Missy may burn things, but she doesn't forget things. Frowning, I step inside.