Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(11)
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.