Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(5)
Voices drift down the hallway. I open my eyes a slit and hover in that place between full awareness and the straggling images of my dreams. They were all about the accident,
of course. There are spaces of white in my memory, but every night I see a doctor’s droopy eyes, a ceiling rushing past. Blood. Always blood.
As I wake, those images slowly fade. Gray light pours through the window and rain splatters against the glass. Another day.
I can hear the giant clock on Main Street marking the hour. Dong. Dong. Dong.
“ … just think we need to nip this in the bud. If we give her any leniency, it’ll only get worse.”
Uncle Saul. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. The hangover isn’t as bad as I thought it would be; my head aches rather than pounds. Mascara smears my hands. I’m still wearing the clothes from yesterday. After sniffing everything else lying around, I just leave them on. Then I leave the comfort of my bed and tiptoe toward the kitchen, trying to ignore how cold the floor is. I get close enough in time to hear Missy reply, “You don’t know that, honey. She’s never done anything like this before.”
There’s a thud. “You may not see it, but Alex is exactly like William. I won’t let her go down the same path he did.”
My aunt takes her time in answering. She must be frying something, because there’s the distinct smell of grease in the air and the sound of sizzling. “She might be like Will in some ways, but she does have her mother’s qualities too, Saul.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. That single release of air contains the weight of all our sorrow. “But if we come down hard on her now, maybe she’ll think twice next time she wants to steal our rum and come home drunk.”
“When you put it like that … ”
I don’t want to hear any more. Pretending to yawn, I shuffle into the room. Both of them instantly stop talking. Missy stands at the stove, attempting to make scrambled eggs from the looks of it. She can’t cook anything without burning it—she always gets distracted by other tasks or her own thoughts—but that doesn’t stop her from trying.
“Want some?” she asks, glancing briefly in my direction. She must have been warned about the eyebrow ring, because she doesn’t look surprised.
Saul is at the table again, this time with a paper and a cup of coffee. Steam rises from the black surface. He doesn’t look any less severe than he did last night. I smile at my aunt and shake my head, going to sit down across from him. He doesn’t look up, and my keys glint in front of my seat, along with a wrapped gift.
“It’s cold today” is all Saul says. Meaning, I have permission to drive. The present gleams and beckons, and I know they expect me to open it, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.
Not when I don’t deserve to.
Another apology sticks in my throat, but Revenge decides to show up just as I’m about to speak. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry. He’s chosen to dress in modern clothes again—today it’s a brown leather jacket, form-fitting jeans, his typical glinting hair, and that cocky grin—yet I can’t control the way my entire body ignites.
Another Emotion comes up behind my chair and leans down, putting hands on my shoulders and a mouth by my ear to whisper, “You don’t know what you’re getting into, girl.” I don’t turn around or acknowledge the words, but her scent overwhelms me.
Oblivious, or maybe choosing to ignore her too, my friend settles into one of the other chairs. It doesn’t creak or even move. “Better eat something,” he drawls. “You’ve got a test in American Lit, right?”
I freeze, forgetting to be disappointed that he doesn’t seem as affected by my presence as I am by his. “Shit.”
Saul and Missy stare at me now. Recovering, I clear my throat. “Uh, sorry. I just meant … I just realized that I have to be at school early today. I’ll see you guys tonight, okay? I’ll open your gift then.” Standing, I scrape my hair into a ponytail and use the hair binder around my wrist to secure it. The gathered strands brush my lower back.
A line deepens between Saul’s eyes as he begins to stand, too. Worry twitches into reality behind him, a frizzy-haired Emotion who avoids eye contact. “Alex—” my uncle begins.
But I’m quicker. I snatch a piece of toast from the plate on the counter, grab my keys, and dart back down the hallway. Missy says something I don’t catch. My teeth sink into the burnt bread as I yank my boots on—no socks—and I’m out the door before my left heel slides into it completely. The keys jangle in my hand, and once I’ve hurried down the stairs and reached the car I spare a moment to look up and wave at Angus, who’s watching me from their front window.
Revenge materializes in his spot in the passenger seat. “Smooth,” he says, eyes light with amusement.
I roll my own eyes in response and start the car, an ancient Saturn that Saul fixed up for me. “Shut up.”
But my heart doesn’t feel like a hot coal while I say it, as it did a few hours ago. Everything feels normal again, like all the shifting and changing that happened yesterday was just another dream. Nate Foster is still in his tiny jail cell, Revenge is here because there’s nothing for him to do but wait, and the gun in my glove box hasn’t been touched. There are no decisions, no uncertainties, no memories slamming at the inside of my skull.