Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(45)
It takes me several attempts to croak, “Is this Dr. Stern?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Stern. Who is this?”
“This is Alex Tate.” I can barely breathe. “I think you knew my father. Will Tate?”
Silence on the other end. I wait for exactly four seconds, then open my mouth to say something else, anything that will get me answers to all my unanswered questions. Before I can, there’s another click.
The dial tone moans in my ear.
Piano music floats through the floor. I stand in front of my bedroom window and make myself listen. Saul has been at it for hours. Every note, every key reveals the inner turmoil I’ve caused. Missy clatters around in the kitchen, making supper even though none of us will probably eat it. The smell of grease fills the apartment. Then Missy swears vehemently, and the scent of charred food joins it. I focus on the faint outline of the moon above me, toying with my eyebrow ring, spinning it around and around through my skin. Eventually I become aware of a hot presence at my back. Then, chocolate.
“Get out.” I don’t turn around.
Revenge moves around me, forcing me to take a step back. His brow is furrowed, and he’s holding a bottle of vodka in one fist and some small rocks in his other palm. Our favorite things to have for a night on the bridge. We would get drunk and skip stones. He thought he could come here and pretend like nothing has changed. The time for pretending is so far behind me it’s not even on the horizon anymore; it’s just gone.
“Alex, what—”
“You may have to be there when I face Nate Foster, but you sure as hell don’t have to be around me until then,” I hiss, wishing I could shove him. An Emotion solidifies at my back. “Get out.”
“First tell me what I did.” His green eyes threaten to breach the wall of anger I’ve built.
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’re done.” My control shatters, and I reach out to plant my hands on his chest, to push him right through the window and watch him fall as hard as I have.
The moment I’m about to make contact, Revenge vanishes. He bursts into sight again by the closet. His gelled hair glints in the lamplight and he’s never been more beautiful to me, now that I know I can never have him. Not really.
“I’m not leaving this room until you—” He stops, clenches his jaw. Until you forgive me, he’d been about to say. Ironic. So, so ironic.
Saul’s music strengthens, wrapping around us. I close my eyes. In the darkness I see Dad in the mines, the glint of Francis’s teeth as she danced, the curve of Briana’s shoulder when she hugged me so tight. I remember how Georgie’s voice sounded when she let go of her dreams, the way Missy’s chin trembled while I threw her love back in her face. There are other memories that try to overwhelm me, but I find a semblance of endurance and push them back.
“Just let me hate you. Please.” I meet Revenge’s gaze and know that there are tears in my own. Emotions touch me, some violent, some gentle. They don’t linger.
“I-I couldn’t exist in a world where you hate me,” Revenge says quietly. I’ve never seen him desperate; it’s obvious in his voice, his eyes, his face. He tries to hide it, but I know him too well.
Yet I didn’t see through all his lies. I face the sky again, unable to look at him anymore. The stars have begun to emerge. Unlike the night of my birthday, they’re utterly silent. I take a ragged breath. “I saw something today. I’m still not sure if it was real or not. But it made me realize something.”
I don’t go on, and Revenge dares to come close again. His breath tickles my ear. “What did you realize?” he asks.
My father’s voice haunts me. Alexandra. “I’m not capable of forgiveness.”
The creature I once called my best friend has no response to this. After all, it’s the only thing he wanted. For me to choose him. What else is there?
Confirming it, Revenge leaves me with the moon and my thoughts. A bitter smile curves my lips.
Saul stops playing downstairs, and a second later there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Alex? There’s supper if you want it.” The floor creaks as Missy walks away. I’m just about to follow when something moves, drawing my attention; a spider has made a home out of the corner of my window. My skin crawls instinctively. Though it’s on the other side of the glass, it would be easy to kill, just like the one in the attic. All I would have to do is push the frame up. Something stops me, though, and I just watch it. The web beneath the little creature glistens as it waits. So still, so patient.
It happens in a moment: a moth flies into the trap. It immediately struggles, but the spider is too fast. It zips across those gleaming strands. I lean closer, morbidly fascinated. The predator’s movements are cold and efficient as it wraps the moth again and again and again. The winged thing is still alive, trying to break free even when it’s obvious the end is near, that it’s futile to struggle against it. Then the spider presses close, as if to kiss, though its intentions are far more sinister. Funny, how an act so lethal could seem like something entirely different.
For an instant I consider reaching out and saving it. Crushing the spider so the moth can wriggle out and away from this place of death. Death is inevitable, though, and it’s too late, anyway.
I observe the gruesome pair until the writhing lump of web goes utterly still, and then I turn my back, letting the spider finish its meal alone.