Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(54)
This time, the dog is actually waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. Her tail is tucked between her legs, an obvious sign of fear, but her hunger must be stronger. I slow down, taking the steps more cautiously. She watches every movement. When I get too close, she retreats a little. Eventually I settle on the bottom step and put the hot plate on my lap. Glancing up at the living room window to make sure Missy isn’t watching, I scoop some of the yellow-brown scrambled eggs onto my fork and offer it to the starving creature.
It takes her thirteen seconds to approach. After she’s gulped down the food, she instantly backs away again. “You like eggs, huh?” I smile, appraising her. Trying to imagine what she would look like with a plump belly and a shining coat. “Well, you’ll probably eat anything. But at least these aren’t completely burnt for once, right?” She cocks her head, hoping for more. I oblige, and she’s not so quick to step back. “I think I’ll call you Eggs,” I decide, giving her the whole plate. She eats with such force that I have to tighten my grip on the edges. “Everyone needs a name, and that one’s as good as any. What do you think?”
Suddenly her eyes go wide, and she runs.
Frowning, I start to call after her. But then Angus is sitting beside me, holding a jar in his hands. Somehow I hadn’t heard him coming down the steps. I put the empty plate by my feet and angle my body so I’m facing him. A tuft of hair sticks up at the back of his head, and his freckles are stark in the morning light. His bones make me think of a bird’s: delicate and breakable. He’s wearing a dirty striped shirt and his shoelaces are untied. He doesn’t speak, and that should be normal, but there’s something different about this silence.
“Sorry I’ve been such a brat lately,” I say, meaning it. He doesn’t respond. It would be better if he hated me. It would. Yet I find myself squinting at the sun and telling him, “You know, when I was a kid my dad used to tell me that the mountain is alive. He said it’s a lady made of stone and trees, and she can hear and see us.” I smile. “He also said that they were friends, and she would let him know if I wasn’t telling the truth about something.” Using the fork, I move a straggling piece of egg across the plate. “Sometimes I’d lie in bed at night and talk to her.”
There’s a long, long pause. Angus looks down at his jar and spreads his fingers over the glass sides. “Did she talk back?” he asks finally. He’s too young for his voice to sound like rust and dust. But it does.
“Not that I could tell.” I focus on him again. “But I bet mountains speak a different language than us. It was just … nice, feeling like someone was listening.”
Quiet prevails once more. This one is kinder, not so fraught with the unspoken. The town clock echoes in the distance. I gradually become aware of the air around us growing warmer, and then Forgiveness is squatting in front of Angus. He looks at him intently. My little friend doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak, doesn’t reveal that anything has changed, yet Forgiveness wouldn’t be here unless Angus was thinking of him.
The Choice’s azure eyes meet mine. I pull my legs to my chest and turn away to watch the end of the sunrise. The brightness, the illumination, is like yellow ribbons draping over the entire mountain, tangling together until it becomes something familiar. We sit in a row on that last step, me and Angus and Forgiveness. The light hits the glass of his jar, and it’s smudged with fingerprints. Noticing this the same instant I do, Angus begins to clean it with the bottom of his shirt. The movement draws my attention to his arm, where Forgiveness’s hand rests. A jolt goes through me.
So that’s how it works? I want to ask him, unable to take my eyes off the touch. It’s that easy?
“No,” Forgiveness answers, as if he can hear my thoughts. “It’s the hardest choice anyone can make.”
The words unsettle me more than anything else he’s said. “Mind if I help with that?” I ask Angus, tearing away from the evidence of his choice. He’s still wiping the jar off. After a breath of hesitation—just a breath—my little friend gives me the jar.
And I know I really am forgiven.
I spend most of the day in the attic, and though I’m probably grounded, Georgie visits for a while and ends up helping. She talks about Billy and graduation but doesn’t mention L.A. Once she’s gone, I go up to my room. Instead of doing research on Dad, Dr. Stern, Andrew, and all the rest of it, I pull out To Kill a Mockingbird. My phone blinks with ignored texts. I read until my eyes hurt, then realize the sunlight is gone; night arrived without the courtesy of notifying me. There isn’t a single star, only clouds. There will probably be a storm later.
Putting the book down, I get up and clutch the curtain with one hand. In the other I now hold my cell phone, with the image of Nate Foster and his mystery woman on the screen.
The scent of chocolate wafts on the air, and I turn, smiling. Revenge stands next to the computer desk where my open laptop glows. His expression is hidden in shadow. “What’ve you been up to?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, and I go to the switch by the door to flick it on. Light floods the room. I turn to gauge Revenge’s expression. His grin is missing, and though there’s a glint in his eye, it’s not anything good. My heart sinks. “What’s wrong?”
“I saw you with him. Earlier.”