Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(71)
Watching her, I know I should have been a better niece. I should have been a better everything. “Almost,” I whisper.
TWENTY-FIVE
After dinner, I pay a visit to the sheriff’s station. Saul and Missy don’t try to stop me from leaving; they’ve finally realized it’s inevitable. I walk through the glass front doors of the station and enjoy the air conditioning on my skin. This is one of the nicest buildings in the county, even with its stained tiles and scuffed walls. The woman manning the phone—Belinda, Marty Paulson’s mother—smiles at me kindly. “Hi, Alex,” she says. “It’s finally getting warm, huh?”
“About time, too. Is Frederick here?”
She inclines her head to the office behind her. “Back there. Go right in; he’s not doing anything important. Hey, we got the water fountain fixed. You should try it on your way out.”
I manage a smile. “Don’t worry, I will.”
Skirting around the desk and attempting to ignore the smell of menthol cigarettes rolling off Belinda, I open the door. Frederick doesn’t seem to hear my entrance, because he doesn’t look up or move from his chair. He moves his finger around the pad of a laptop. I lift my own hand to rap on the inside of the doorway, but find myself pausing to watch for a second. According to Saul, Frederick DeLauro is the youngest sheriff in our county’s history. He’s in his mid-thirties, already balding, and still lives with his mother. Most people underestimate him when they meet him.
“Damn it,” Frederick grumbles suddenly, continuing to be oblivious to my presence. His glasses glint in the lamplight. “Stupid, cocky, cheating … ”
“That German kid kicking your butt again?”
The sheriff jumps and simultaneously slams the laptop shut. “Oh, Alex. Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
At this, my mouth twitches. Everyone knows that Frederick’s one goal in life is to be a chess champion. He may be the only person I know that has a dream and still clings to it, pursues it day after day. And I genuinely hope he achieves it. Someone should.
Trying to regain his composure, Frederick adjusts his collar. His badge flashes. “What can I do for you, Alex? If this is about the guy that broke your car mirror, I don’t have anything yet.”
“How many people know that Andrew Lomenta is really Andrew Thorn?”
His eyes go wide. His reaction is the answer I already knew; I just needed a confirmation. Or maybe a quiet part of me wanted someone to say that it isn’t true, that the man who had my family’s trust isn’t a monster.
Stalling, Frederick plays with his shirt collar again. His mother must have put too much starch on it. “Not many,” he admits after a few seconds, probably realizing that there’s no way to avoid the truth. “He left town when he was young, and most people have forgotten that Sammy Thorn even had a son.”
There’s something else I need to know. My gaze drops to Frederick’s feet, and his shoes become all that exists. A tiny world of leather and laces and simplicity. “Did my father know?”
“Yes.” He appraises me, and Compassion makes an appearance. The Emotion touches his back and, as most of them do, stares at me while she does it. What does Frederick pity me for? My family’s stupidity? Or the fact that they’re no longer alive to trust the wrong people? I’m about to ask him more, but Frederick isn’t finished. “People in town were mighty vicious,” he tells me. “Especially Erskine, since he was the kid they found at the Thorn place. But your father defended Andrew. He said that the blood you inherit doesn’t make the man.”
The revelation about Erskine is drowned out by this last part. It sounds like something Dad would say. A lump swells in my throat. “Then what does?” I mutter, resisting the urge to shrug off whatever Emotion is putting a hand on my shoulder.
Frederick’s brow creases. “What?”
The weight on my shoulder dissipates. “Never mind. Were there any other disappearances reported? Say … around the time of my family’s accident?”
“Why don’t you leave that to the adults, Alex. We know what we’re doing.” To soften the words, he winks. I glance at the holstered gun against his hip and think, So do I.
An awkward silence falls, and I shove my hands into my pockets. For a moment I consider telling Frederick everything. About the attacks, the note beneath my pillow, my findings from the flash drive. But that threat haunts every thought and action I make: Tell anyone about this, we go after your precious Saul and Missy next. When I leave this world, I want more than anything for those I love to be all right. And I also don’t have the time to sit in this tiny office and answer whatever questions my revelations will spur on.
“Well, guess I better get going,” I say eventually. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem. Say hi to your aunt and uncle for me.”
I move back to the door. “Will do. And also … good luck.”
The man tilts his head in confusion, and I cast a meaningful look toward the computer. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh, right. Thanks. Bye, Alex.”
On my way out, I make sure to try the newly fixed water fountain. Belinda beams, and I tell her it’s great. The water tastes like rust.
The moment I step outside, a new voice calls out. When I see who it is, dread coils in my stomach: Mrs. Warren, motherin-law to Ian, the owner of the general store. Ian’s always complaining about how she’ll never die, because that would mean she’d have to stop talking. Today she’s wearing waist-high pants and a flowered top, with permed gray hair and oval-shaped glasses.