Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(25)
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.