Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(12)

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!”