Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(26)

Forgiveness inclines his head, shifting slightly. The leather seat creaks and mint drifts over me. “May I offer you some advice?” he asks. When I don’t respond he continues anyway. “You can’t trust my kind. We’re volatile … and we’re not human. We don’t have the same laws or instincts you do.” His voice is always serious, but there’s an extra gravity to the statement.

Not human. As if I didn’t already know that. A bitter smile curves my lips. “And what are those laws and instincts?” Finally I look at him.

“To protect the ones we love.” His gaze is unwavering. “Our ideas of right and wrong are too different.”

My jaw clenches, and somehow it becomes a battle of wills. Whoever looks away first is weakest. What Forgiveness doesn’t know is that I adore-hate his eyes. They’re so sad they make me remember what I’ve lost, but they’re so bottomless I could fall forever. I lied; being around Forgiveness is thrilling, too, no matter how much I want to deny it.

“You’re talking about Revenge,” I comment, hoping my face doesn’t betray my thoughts. Picturing him, I put my finger on the trigger. My best friend wouldn’t tell me what to do, of course, or let me touch him—that would be interfering—but just the proximity to him would be enough. Just enough. I’d have the strength to walk up to that door and finish it. Why doesn’t he come?

“You don’t have to do this.” Forgiveness’s voice is gentle, just like everything else about him.

“Yes, I do,” I hiss. It’s unfair, how my stomach flutters when he moves his hand closer to mine. He really is a beautiful creature, no matter how much I want to deny it. Too bad he’s such an ugly concept. “I didn’t summon you. You don’t belong here.”

Forgiveness doesn’t relent. “Part of you wants me here.” He leans toward me, as if to prove this point. His eyelashes, long and dark, brush against the tips of his cheekbones when he slowly blinks. As usual, he’s wearing that white T-shirt. It’s an obvious effort to seem human, to appear touchable and pure. And even the knowledge that he’s anything but doesn’t make resisting him easy. I know that if I choose him … the shifting tectonic plates within me might finally go still.

I can’t let that happen.

So I turn away again, gritting my teeth, and resume glaring at the bright window. Forgiveness doesn’t sigh or try to pull me back. He just eases into his seat again and watches me while I watch them.

“Do you want to know what Nate is doing right now?” he asks after another pause. I don’t respond. He tells me anyway. “He’s in his study, drinking a glass of brandy. He’s tired. His wife yelled at him for being so late and not calling. The real reason she’s angry, though, is because she’s scared she’s lost the man she knew. The man she loved.”

“Shut up,” I spit. “Just shut up.” My finger curls around the trigger even more, and I’m shaking.

“But she’ll forgive him. She always does. I usually feel her summons sometime in the middle of the night, when she’s cold and lonely.”

“If I could put a bullet through your head, I would. Gladly.”

The threat doesn’t affect Forgiveness. He rests his hand on the gear shift, a silent way to let me know that all of this could be over and behind me if I would just give in. Let go of the anger and summon him for real, let that hand touch my shoulder or my cheek or my fingers.

My phone is next to Forgiveness’s wrist. It’s off now, since I got tired of dodging Andrew’s calls. He’s been calling nonstop since I left the college.

“You’ve never killed before, Alexandra,” Forgiveness reminds me. “Do you really think you want to?”

It’s my name on his lips that does it. Alexandra. My mind goes back to another place, another time, another person who used to call me that. Dad’s voice echoes through the stillness. No, Alexandra, this is C-sharp. Put your finger there. Yes, good. Okay, now, do you remember the scale? No, not anymore. Those black and white keys no longer represent music; they represent what should have been. Everything that was ripped away on that rainy night.

I turn to stone as I say, “Yes. I do.” The intensity of Forgiveness’s presence wanes as my fierce longing for revenge increases. The Choice himself finally appears in the backseat.

“Alex.” Revenge greets me in silken tones. Finally. Defiant and desperate, I stretch out my hand toward him, willing him to hear my thoughts. I choose you. Touch me. Take this unbearable uncertainty away. Help me.

But instead of ending it, Revenge draws back. Out of reach. Shocked, I stare at him. My friend avoids my gaze and whispers, “You’re not ready yet. You haven’t really decided.”

Another silence ebbs through the car, this one so thick it clogs my throat. My breath comes in jagged pieces. In. Out. In. Out. Forgiveness and Revenge just wait, and they don’t even bother to acknowledge each other. They want me to choose? I laugh. “Fine!” A gust of warm air shocks me; I’ve opened the door. I choose neither. I choose my family.

“Alexandra, don’t.” For the first time, Forgiveness’s expression seems strained; his mouth purses. I’m rigid now, my vision blurred as the urges tear each other apart. I can see myself opening that door and going in. Hunting down Nate Foster’s study, finding him behind a large oak desk. He’d see me, and he would drop that glass of brandy in shock. It would shatter on the floor, into a thousand glittering pieces. The same way he broke me. I’d raise the gun, and I wouldn’t waver. Maybe I’d say something. Words that had meaning, about poetic justice or vindicated retribution. A single moment. That’s all it would take.