Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(60)
Slowly, my father shakes his head. “No. Not this time.”
Despite everything else I need to know, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is … is Mom here? Or Hunter?” My eyes seek the darkness around him as if they might be there, hidden and just waiting for me to notice.
Another silence spreads through this tiny hole in the earth, and it feels as heavy and substantial as if the walls gave way and buried us. Dad studies me with tears in his eyes, and I start to think he’s not going to answer. But then he says, “We’re all here, honey.”
The breath catches in my throat, and suddenly Dad’s form starts to go transparent. Already I can see through him to the elevator behind. “Wait,” I cry, running to him again. “I still have so many—”
He’s gone.
The twelve-year-old girl that still exists inside of me refuses to leave. She makes us wait for him to return, for one more word or glimpse to feed our starving soul. But there’s nothing. There’s only the dirt and the dark. Finally, mindless of the rain, I drift back to my car. Shift gears. Drive home. Walk up the steps. Go inside. Shut the door.
Missy is sitting at the kitchen table. She looks up from a magazine she’s reading. “I made pancakes for lunch,” she announces. “And I didn’t burn them. That’s always a plus, right? Hey, where’s your little friend?”
I shrug in response, unable to speak after what happened in the mines. My aunt frowns, probably sensing something amiss, but doesn’t pursue it. Part of my brain processes that she’s telling me to get some food off the stove and eat with her. Feeling like an automaton or a doll, a thing just made of flesh and bones, I obey. I sit. The chair creaks, as it always does. Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed.
Seconds—at least it feels like seconds—pass. Missy is saying something again, pointing to my plate. Following the tongs of her fork, I look down. Somehow, the pancakes have become soggy lumps, bloated with syrup and butter. Cold to the touch. Indifferent, I turn to look out the window and lose myself in the gray sky. Right now there are no questions to avoid and no voices to disturb the stillness. There is only the rain.
TWENTY-ONE
On the way home from school I stop at both the mines and the Fosters’. Neither visit brings me any peace or satisfaction, so I don’t linger. Once I get to the apartment I go to my room and sit at the desk, immersing myself in the mystery of the flash drive. If I don’t focus on something, I might lose what little sanity I have left.
Someone is in the shop with Saul, buying one of the abandoned pianos he repaired. The thuds and clunks of the move reach my ears through the floor as I browse the files. I’ve been through everything at least twice already, and I barely understand any of the information. I open SUBJECTS and review the list of names, remembering the urgency in Dad’s voice when he said, I know you took the kids, and I know you lied to me and Stern. And how does Sammy Thorn tie into all this? Suddenly I stiffen, leaning closer to the screen with interest.
There are profiles for each of the names. Phone numbers, addresses, physical details, and often photos for each subject. There are even descriptions of what drew the attention of the researcher. My heart struggles against the confines of my chest when I see words like other plane and sight. One story in particular stands out, about a girl with hazel eyes. Christine Masterson.
Four days ago, a report reached me about a young girl in a town approximately one hundred and sixty-three miles east of here. According to local residents she has always talked about things that no one else can see. She comes from a religious background, and her parents came to believe that she is being possessed. After interviewing her family further, however, I have deduced that these “demons” Miss Masterson sees are the focus of my studies. Her descriptions are too accurate and too detailed. Her parents willingly granted me custody, but Miss Masterson was not so compliant. Nonetheless, she has contributed to the serums.
It’s such a strange realization, to know that I’m not as alone as I’ve always felt. There are similar themes in the other subjects’ backgrounds, but something about the way Christine gazes into the camera makes me return to her again and again. I scroll to find her address, and my pulse quickens when I see that she lives just forty minutes away, in Kennewick. One of the boys, Travis Bardeen, isn’t as convenient but still possible. There’s no picture for him. I write their information down and keep looking. The others are farther out, too far. They’re spread across the country. Some are even overseas.
As I read, one question returns to me over and over, like the ringing of the town clock: What were these experiments trying to accomplish?
If I can’t get the answers from Andrew or Dr. Stern or Dad, maybe the kids in these profiles will tell me.
The sky has deepened to the color of rust by the time I reach Kennewick. It takes me too much time to find Christine’s house—the GPS signal on my phone keeps fading in and out—but eventually my car rattles down the right back road and a faded mailbox comes up on my left. No name, just numbers. Ignoring the flutters in my stomach and the Emotion in the passenger seat, I turn into the driveway. It’s riddled with potholes, and I grit my teeth for a mile until the house comes into view. It’s in worse shape than Briana’s. The roof looks a moment away from caving in, and the yard is a landfill. I see an ancient dryer and an even older pickup truck among all the junk.