Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(13)

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.