Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(15)

“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?”