Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(51)
But Revenge keeps going. “This way.”
“What are you—”
“Just trust me, okay?”
Pushing aside my reservations, I tiptoe around the side of the house. Revenge stops and watches me expectantly, standing by a window. Through the glass I see a living room. A couch with a floral pattern, a coffee table with a bowl of fake fruit on it, lamps with beads dangling from the shades. But all of that fades away when I see people move in the shadows. Light from the hallway falls over them. Though the only sounds around us are frogs and crickets and wind, I can imagine the sounds they are making.
Nate Foster has a woman up against the wall, and they’re kissing.
“See the possibilities?” Revenge breathes. Excitement—a petite creature with spiked black hair—quivers beside me while I dig out my cell phone, turn on the camera, and take a picture. Nate Foster and the woman who isn’t his wife appear on the screen, forever documented in pixels and promises. My fingers tremble and I tear away from the sight to look at my best friend.
Words are impossible. As if he understands, Revenge smiles into my eyes, and we’ve never been more connected than in this moment. Those words from six years ago echo in the tiny space between us: That’s the question, isn’t it, Alexandra Tate? What do you want? Suddenly it doesn’t matter that he’s going to disappear, it doesn’t matter that part of what I want I can never have. “I could kiss you right now,” I whisper, grinning.
Slowly, the mirth dies in his garden-green eyes. We stare at each other, neither of us moving away or acting like the heat doesn’t exist. We’re both thinking about that almost-kiss in the attic again, the one we’ve both secretly agreed not to acknowledge. I study his features even though I have all of him committed to memory. His hair, the color of embers or an exposed wire, glints. His lips, generous and sober, have never been more tempting. I think of those minutes in the mines, how he was the one to come when I was most broken. I want to touch him so badly, and I can tell he does, too. The heat intensifies until we’re burning in it.
“It’s my turn to show you something,” I say finally.
He frowns, clearly puzzled. Turning my back on Nate Foster—they’re on the couch now, still oblivious to our presence—I walk back to the front of the house. Fireflies flare and fade over the grass like dying stars. Revenge trails after me. I go right up to the front door and face him again, willing him to realize that this is my silent promise. My unspoken vow that soon, I will let go of everything and choose.
Never looking away from Revenge, I touch the door. Just one touch. But it feels like so much more.
It feels like the beginning of the end.
Screams drift through the wall.
Ever since I got home there’s been an idea in my head, the notion that the instant I touched the Fosters’ door, the darkness I tried to contain beneath my skin was released. It now seems to freely affect everyone around me. Angus’s parents, Saul and Missy. Their arguments are an orchestra coming from every side, notes and harmonies made of bitterness and worry and anger.
I lie in bed with my arm crooked above me, listening. Andrew is long gone, and Angus didn’t attempt to reach me through his knocks. His parents are shouting about bills. Saul and Missy, of course, are shouting about me. He brings up discipline and consequences while she keeps insisting on patience and time. This is what I’ve brought them to. When I imagined myself on that road, I never thought I would drag them with me.
With each barbed word the ceiling looms closer, white and smooth. It feels like it’s on top of me, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I sit up, pressing a hand to my chest. I have to end it soon. We can’t keep going like this.
“Alex.”
His voice doesn’t startle me; I’d been picturing him, hoping he would come and harden my resolve again. I turn and he’s standing there beside my bed, ethereal in the moonlight. There’s a gleam in his eyes I recognize, one that emanates from my own: a need to move, a frantic desire for action. “Come with me,” Revenge whispers.
Wordlessly, I throw the covers aside and stand. The floor is cold on my bare feet. I crack my door open and peer out cautiously. They must have left the kitchen and gone into their room; I can hear the furious rumble of my uncle’s voice behind that thin barrier. Revenge doesn’t linger to watch me avoid the spots on the floor that will creak and give me away. It takes a few minutes to navigate through the dim apartment and out to the steps.
My best friend leans against the railing as I close the front door behind me. “The bridge?” I ask the moment the latch clicks. It’s a good thing the air is warmer tonight, since I’m only wearing boxers and a T-shirt.
He shakes his head. “The lake.”
Flip-flops were the first pair of shoes I found in the hallway, and they make a slight sound with each step I take. I cringe and hurry the rest of the way down the stairs. Since the sound of my car starting would doubtless alert Saul and Missy, I get on my bike. Revenge runs alongside me on the road, his shirt a splash of red in a world made of black and white. We don’t talk. Before Nate Foster’s release, we talked about anything and everything. Georgie’s latest scheme, Briana’s future, Saul’s maps. I miss that ease. Yet there’s something delicious about the silence between us now.
We get to the lake and the surface is eerily, beautifully still. I stop next to the charred remains of the bonfire and push the kickstand. “So, what’s—”