Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(72)
She hurries up to me, panting. “It’s going to rain tomorrow. I can feel it in my old bones,” she manages to say.
There’s no chance to respond. She goes on and on and on. Eventually I cut into her rampage on the state of Franklin’s economy, or rather, the nonexistence of it. “It was really nice to see you, Mrs. Warren, but I need to go home. Missy probably needs help in the kitchen. You know how it is.”
“Oh, I certainly do. Remember that church picnic when you were twelve? She brought a ham, but it looked like a pig that died in a barn fire! Tasted okay, though. I mean, you can’t really ruin ham—”
I hurry away.
Next, I drive to Nate Foster’s. Not to use the gun or contrive more ways to ruin his life; just to observe. The entire way to the house I keep thinking how tomorrow is the anniversary of the accident. It seems fitting—even poetic—that everything should end on the same day it all began.
As if my vengeful thoughts are a beacon, deafening and exhilarating, Revenge arrives in his usual seat. He smiles at me through the dimness. I’m opening my mouth to greet him when headlights flare behind me, a white flash that makes the rearview mirror so bright it hurts.
Fear quivers into view, already grinning. “Revenge,” he drawls, wrapping his arm across my neck. The instant he makes contact, my spine goes rigid and memories of the Taurus taunt me.
“What is it?” Revenge murmurs. He doesn’t even bother to respond to Fear. I don’t—can’t—answer. The skin on my palms goes numb from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. When the headlights don’t fade or retreat, I push down on the gas pedal. Revenge twists around. “Do you know who that is?” he asks sharply, glaring at the car that’s too close to our bumper.
Mutely I shake my head. The speed needle inches further and further around the circular gauge. Before I can attempt to explain to Revenge what’s been happening, he vanishes. Fear leans forward again, his near-white hair glowing from the green numbers on the radio. His eyes are as bright as the headlights, eager and excited.
“I know how to drive,” he announces. “Move over.”
“Go to hell,” I say through my teeth.
Clearly affronted, Fear starts to retort. Revenge comes back, thankfully, and my heart sinks when I see his scowl. “It’s no one we know. Just a guy.” He glances back at Fear. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Once again Fear has no opportunity to respond, because at that moment the car behind us turns. The light fades. All the breath leaves my body in a whoosh and Relief sags against me.
“False alarm,” I manage. Fear rolls his eyes and leaves. Get it together, my instincts hiss. Sanderson Road is close. There’s the tree that fell during the last thunderstorm. I concentrate on breathing normally, and Revenge appraises me.
“You’ve changed,” he says. It’s not a question or a barb. Just an observation. I don’t ask him if that’s a good or a bad thing, because I don’t want to know. We go the rest of the way in complete silence. He doesn’t disappear again, though, and that says more than words ever could.
The mailbox appears on the right, and then the house. It stands on the hill, no longer untouchable or majestic. Tonight it looks … ill. As though cancer has invaded and infected everything within and around those walls. There are no lights, no meals in the dining room, no music drifting through the windows. I get out and tiptoe across the lawn. Even if her car wasn’t gone, I would know that Jennifer left. Because the kitchen is a mess. Shattered glass glitters on the floor. Satisfaction fills me, and I almost don’t mind the fact that the Emotion has his hand on my chest like he’s trying to find my heart. He won’t find it. With each passing day it’s been shrinking and shriveling, until nothing remains but a husk and the memory of what used to be.
Movement startles me, and I comprehend that I’m looking right at Nate Foster. He’s sitting on the floor in the hallway, a bottle clenched in one hand. A belch shudders through his body. Seeing how he’s deteriorated, I don’t feel remorse or compassion or regret. Revenge comes to stand beside me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but we must be thinking the same thing.
He’s lost his wife. Now he needs to lose everything else.
A figure strolls along the edge of the woods.
The moon is a faded crescent above the mountain, but the mist surrounding him emanates a light all its own. It swirls and thickens. His hands hover, palm-down, in the air next to his narrow hips. I park in front of the apartments and turn to watch Fog finish his work, the leather cushion beneath me creaking with the movement. Revenge watches, too. The Element keeps walking until the mist swallows him completely. When I face the windshield again, I catch sight of another figure. This one hunches on the steps, smaller and infinitely more human. “Angus,” I sigh. Shadows move on the gravel. His parents are fighting in front of the window.
Our worlds are so small.
I angle my body toward Revenge. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, like it’s a promise. I can’t help but notice the absence of light in his eyes, the lack of anticipation and excitement and fervor. He reaches for my face, and I tense in surprise. His skin doesn’t make contact. His thumb hovers along the edge of my jaw. I close my eyes and imagine what it will be like when it really does happen. It will be so brief, so cruelly brief. Will it be worth all of this? Yes. When I open my eyes again, Revenge is gone. Swallowing a sigh, I pull the keys from the ignition and get out.