Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(50)
Hope has a way of sneaking up on you. It’s a craving that ebbs back when you least expect it. Even though you know it’s wrong, you can’t help but want a taste of it now and then. Then you pay. There’s always a price to pay for hope. I feel myself deflate.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper. Overhead, a squirrel jumps through the treetops, and a branch snaps. The sound echoes.
“I … ” More silence. He’s probably trying find the right thing to say. I know what I want to hear most: that everything will be okay. Except that it won’t. People move on, people live their lives day-to-day just trying to cope. But I think there’s a small part in all of us that’s just waiting for the next awful thing to happen. Everything is okay until it isn’t.
As Revenge continues to grapple for those impossible words, I release a long breath. I need to focus on something else. I need to change the subject. Gathering my hair into a ponytail, I go to a fallen tree and sit. The elastic band snaps into place.
“A lot of strange things have been happening and I don’t know what to do with any of it,” I say abruptly.
My friend settles down next to me and crosses his legs at the ankles. Normally I would comment on the fact that he’s wearing what looks like a bullfighting outfit, but not tonight. “Like what?” he asks.
“Well, the book, for one thing. That was a mature stunt you pulled. Really, I was impressed.” I glare, thinking about it.
“Book?” Revenge repeats. He honestly seems confused. “What are you talking about?”
My blood runs cold. If Revenge wasn’t the one who was in the apartment last night, then who? My instincts insist Forgiveness wouldn’t have done something like that. I turn away, muttering, “Never mind.”
It’s already twilight. The sun has begun to lower, fusing with the horizon. Hues of yellow and orange spread over everything. Another missed day of school. “Maybe none of this matters. I mean, it has nothing to do with Nate Foster.”
“Have you been to the house lately?” he asks.
“No.” I sigh, picturing that front door. Untouchable, unreachable. “I don’t think I have it in me, Revenge. To kill someone. Even after what he did to my family.” This is a day of hesitations and pauses, because yet another silence falls between me and Revenge. It’s not as uncomfortable as the others; thoughts of my encounter with Dr. Stern distract and consume me. The message Dad left on Andrew’s answering machine.
Then Revenge shifts. I turn and find that he’s staring at me with an odd expression. I tilt my head in questioning. Slowly, he says, “Death isn’t the only revenge, Alex.”
“What do you mean?”
As a response, Revenge jumps to his feet. “Let’s go. Your car is at the apartment, right?”
By the time I get back, my body is aching again and all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep, but Revenge is waiting on the bottom step. My gaze slides past him to a strange car parked in front of the shop—the same one that was hovering by the curb at the playground, that first night I talked with Forgiveness at the lake.
Andrew. I’d completely forgotten that he was planning to come see me.
Swearing under my breath, I hurry to the Saturn and hope no one saw me. Revenge appears in the passenger seat. There’s a strange tightness to his mouth, like he’s anticipating what’s about to happen but wants to hide it. Almost as if, like me, he doesn’t know what he wants. But that can’t be it, since he’s Revenge. Right?
“So what are we—” Someone raps on the windshield. I jump and shriek. Missy circles the hood and peers in at me, frowning, and I quickly roll down the window. Fear doesn’t bother to offer commentary this time, and Revenge scowls at the delay.
“Didn’t you see Andrew’s car?” My aunt puts her hand on the edge of the door. Her wedding ring glitters. “He’s here to see you.”
“I can’t talk to him right now,” I say. Bewildered, Missy begins to argue. I shift gears and reverse before she asks questions I can’t answer. Now Guilt joins us in the tiny space. She’s so big that her head bumps the ceiling, and her face makes me think of a pig. Beady eyes, flat nose. I grind my teeth when she caresses my head. “This better be good,” I tell Revenge.
Missy fades in the rearview mirror as Revenge says, “Oh, it will be. Trust me.”
My headlights guide the way down the mountain. It begins to drizzle. Revenge and I don’t speak again, not even when I turn onto Sanderson Road. After a minute the house comes up on the right, a structure of white. Tonight it almost glows, as though the Fosters are the ghosts and not my father.
It hasn’t been long since my last visit, but somehow it feels like years. Once we get close I switch the lights off, as usual, and pull into my hiding place beneath a huge tree. It offers an excellent vantage point of the house. Only one car is in the driveway this time. “Where’s Jennifer?”
“Visiting her mother.”
Uncertain, I start to reach for the glove box like I usually do. My heart pounds harder.
“You won’t need that,” Revenge tells me, getting out. A whoosh of air follows in his wake. I hadn’t realized how warm it is. The mountain can’t seem to decide which season to cling to. Either that or the Seasons themselves are feeling fickle. Cutting the engine, I swiftly follow. Mist rolls over the lawn and we creep—I creep—from tree to tree. The chandelier above the dining room table is so bright that it illuminates half the yard. I recall the night I watched Jennifer Foster cry over her kitchen sink. This time, though, Compassion is nowhere in sight. Approaching, I grip the windowsill and dare to look inside.