Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(3)

What do you want?

The question still echoes through my head six years later. I find myself looking away from the twists and curves of the road to study Revenge’s profile. He’s not beautiful in the traditional sense, but he is striking. Sometimes I have trouble tearing my eyes away. His coppery hair is cropped short, and his features are sharp and flawless. Every time he grins, dimples deepen in his cheeks.

Feeling my stare, Revenge turns his head. I quickly look at the road, biting my lip.

Has he stayed with me all these years because he wanted this moment so badly? Or did he stay because … he just wanted to? I’ve never let myself ask. I didn’t want to ruin it, ruin us. My entire life I’ve chased after the things that scare me most—maybe because it feels like a punishment, or maybe because I can. But Revenge is one of my greatest weaknesses. As things are, he feels safe. Dependable. If I change this, there won’t be any going back.

It’s my fault, really, for falling in love with my best friend.

A love that’s unorthodox, impossible, and worst of all unrequited.

To escape the black hole of my thoughts, I turn on the radio. Revenge glances at me with an indiscernible expression. We don’t get reception up here, though, so all that will come through is Joe’s local station. And he only plays Elvis. A song I’ve listened to a thousand times drifts through the thick silence of the cab.

“My dad hated this,” I say suddenly. “He grew up here, you know. Joe refused to play anything else back then, too, so the entire town has always been stuck driving around with Elvis in our cars. It’s either that or tapes. No one exactly has a car made in this century. But where are you going to find tapes?” I smile.

“You don’t talk about him much,” Revenge comments.

He’s playing with me. I’m aware that it’s what he does, but it still hurts. Revenge knows everything about me. What happened the night I lost everything, what’s happened since then, why I don’t talk about it. He wants me to remember, and he wants me to get angry. For the first time, I wish Revenge wasn’t here. But there’s no point in telling him to leave; the only thing creatures from the other plane listen to are their summons.

SANDERSON ROAD.

The sign appears suddenly, a flash of color in the blend of black and brown. Revenge slams on the brakes so hard the smell of burnt rubber permeates the darkness. My nostrils flare as I take in the illuminated words. Every road on and around the mountain is named after some old miner from the very first crew.

Revenge’s smile is back. He’s forgotten to hide it, or maybe he doesn’t care. Deliberately, he turns onto the street Nate Foster lives on. Elvis keeps singing, oblivious to everything that’s unfolding. We’re slowing down now, and I reach to flip the headlights off. I don’t want him to know I’m coming. I want the moment we meet to be devastatingly unexpected.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires and moonlight guides us around the curves. There are only three houses down here, and they’re miles apart. No witnesses.

Nate Foster’s driveway is marked by a single mailbox. Plastic, beige, the number 36 stickered on the side. I’ve stared at it so much that the image is embedded into my brain. There’s a FOR SALE sign next to it, which has been there for months.

Now I hesitate.

Sensing this, Revenge stops the car.

The only sounds in the entire world are Elvis, my breathing, and the rumbles of the engine beneath us. For a few minutes I concentrate on that, on the air flowing through my lungs. In. Out. In. Out. Then, as if I’m moving through an ocean of syrup, I lean forward, open the glove box, and take out the gun. It’s cool in my hand.

Revenge says nothing.

“It’s Saul’s,” I whisper. He knows this, of course, but I feel an overwhelming need to speak, to say something. “He keeps it in his nightstand drawer. It was tucked under a Bible, shoved in the back, but I can—”

“Find anything,” Revenge finishes. The sound of his voice is jarring.

“Go,” I say.

He hits the gas and spins into the driveway, abandoning subtlety. Emotions flood the car and reach for me. Their hands brush my cheek, my hair, my shoulder, my back as Revenge parks and I jump out. The spring air tries to soothe me, but all I’m aware of is the wide window to the left of

the front door. Yellow light spills from a chandelier and over the ground outside. The dining room. Two people sit in chairs, eating and drinking. Wine quivers in their glasses. Somehow they haven’t seen me. I dart to the side and edge closer, using the shadows of the trees to hide me. Closer. I still have the gun.

And there he is.

Over all these years, I’d built him up. He became this monster, this thing made of thorns and red eyes and hisses. But all I see now is a man. An ordinary, weary-looking man. He takes a bite of his food and chews like a cow, his jaw going around and around. There are bags under his eyes, and he’s lost hair since I saw his picture in the paper. Nate Foster.

“Alex,” Revenge breathes from his place beside me.

He must feel the way my insides go still. “So that’s who killed them, huh?” I ask, barely recognizing my own voice. It’s flat, empty. My grip loosens on the gun. “I almost wish he was a monster.”

“Just because he looks like an accountant doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of murder.” Revenge is standing so close I can feel the heat rolling off his skin. That scent of chocolate coaxes me. So good, so easy.