Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(48)

Andrew. Alarm slams through me, and I gasp and put the phone back with a clatter. I can hear his footsteps against the hard floor, coming closer, about to discover me going through his private belongings. There’s no time to circle the desk and go to the shelf, act as though I’m doing nothing wrong.

The desk. Desperately I get on my knees and crawl into the space beneath it. It’s tight, but I still manage to pull the chair in so I’m concealed. There’s no time to grab my keys. Andrew says goodbye to whoever he’s talking to and comes in. There’s the sound of the door closing. I curl into myself, hardly daring to breathe. Please don’t sit down. Please, please, please …

He doesn’t. I watch his shining shoes stop in front of my hiding place. The flutter of papers is louder than my own breathing. There’s a thud; I guess he put his briefcase down. His cologne coils around me, and then someone is crouching next to the chair, reaching for me with a pale hand. I smother a cry. For a wild instant I think I’ve been discovered … until I see the shock of white-blond hair and that familiar smirk. Fear. “Great hiding place,” the Emotion says.

I’m so tense that it feels as if my organs have turned to wood. Of course I don’t answer, and Fear snickers before going off to terrorize someone else.

It doesn’t take long to realize that my insides couldn’t be wood, because my lungs wouldn’t be shrieking for air. And the leg of the chair is jabbing into my calf. The pain becomes more important than the risk of discovery, and I’m about to shift when Andrew’s voice slices through the stillness. “Alex.”

I freeze.

“It’s Andrew. Again. I’m coming to Franklin tonight. We need to talk. I haven’t gotten any responses from my voicemails or texts, with good reason, but you need me right now. You probably already know why.” I hear him moving away, and I dare to breathe again. The light flicks off, the door closes a second time.

I scramble out from under the desk, trembling. Part of me aches to finish listening to the message, but Andrew could come back and all my instincts urge me to run. I snatch up my own keys from where they rest behind a picture on the desk, grateful he hadn’t noticed them. Just as I pull away, my gaze slides across the picture itself … and I stop. Double-take. Stare.

It’s a faded image of a man standing next to a little boy. Their clothing is so outdated it must have been taken a long, long time ago. I don’t recognize either of them, but something about it bothers me, flicks at my consciousness. How have I missed this before? Hurriedly I pick it up and remove the back from the frame, sliding the picture out from its resting place against the glass. I’m about to flip it over when words catch my eye, scribbled in the right corner.

Andrew and Sammy, 1985.

It can’t be.

My heart stops, and I reread those words again and again as if they’ll change or rearrange themselves into something else. But they don’t. Suddenly I know what’s so familiar about the picture. The man, his face. I saw it in a newspaper article in the attic, among my father’s things. Sammy Thorn. Kidnapper, murderer, eternal mystery.

And Andrew is his son.

If he lied to me about this, what else has he lied about?

The risk of discovery has passed, yet my skin is crawling and every instinct I have is screaming at me to leave, get out, run. I don’t fight it and put the picture back. Before leaving I make sure that everything looks exactly like it did when I came in. It has to, since Andrew’s meticulous nature will sense it straightaway. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and grasp the doorknob, pulling it shut behind me.

I’m heading for the parking lot again when I pause next to the front desk. I should go home, where it feels safe—even if it isn’t. I shouldn’t tempt fate again, especially in light of my recent discoveries. But I’ve never been very good at doing things I should. So instead of going to my car, I rush up to the receptionist. “Where is Dr. Felix Stern’s office?” I ask, wrapping my hands around the edge of the counter to hide the way they’re shaking.

The woman turns her head. She’s on the phone. Smiling at me, she points the end of her pencil to the left. The opposite direction from Andrew’s office. Nodding my thanks, I follow the way indicated by that worn eraser, rushing down the hallway and making sure to glance at each room number.

There it is. I jerk to a halt and stare.

Like all the other offices, there’s a plaque on the door. I scan the familiar name several times as I lift my hand and knock. Nothing. But the paper taped beneath the plaque says his office hours are right now. He must be in there. Pursing my lips, I knock harder. The door rattles on its hinges. “Hello?” I call, listening for any movement within.

“Yes, yes, what is it?” A man yanks the door open and stands there, glaring. He’s very short, almost pudgy. His suit is brown and wrinkled, and glasses wink at me in the light. Tufts of gray hair surround his ears.

The pause becomes too long, and I know he’s about to lose patience again. If he has any. “Are you Dr. Stern?” I manage. Questions crowd in my throat, clambering over each other, making it impossible to go on.

Another pause. The man doesn’t respond. The ferocity in his expression fades as he studies my features. Then recognition brightens his eyes, as unmistakable as the dawn. He casts a furtive glance up and down the hallway.

“You look like your father, Alexandra Tate,” he mutters in that thick accent. The same one in the voicemail, the one that answered my call so briefly before hanging up. “You shouldn’t be here.” He shuffles back and closes the door a little, using it like a shield. Against me?