Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(8)

I pluck a textbook from its place on the wall—the one I’d been looking at earlier—and plop into the plushy chair by the door. My legs dangle off the armrest. “Of course,” I chirp. I flip through the pages, stroking the ridges with my thumb.

Andrew pauses in his typing. His expression is strange. “What made you pick that book?”

I shrug as if the answer doesn’t matter, as if it’s nothing. “I figured it wouldn’t be boring.” But I can feel the embossed title against my palm—Creatures of Myth—and it matters more than he can know. Almost as much as getting the nerve to face Nate Foster matters.

“You didn’t used to be interested in myth,” Andrew says.

His tone is light, conversational, but no one can ever suspect. The other plane wouldn’t like it. So I lift my head and snap, “I don’t see any gossip magazines around here, so … ”

The professor raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. Behind him there’s a wide window, and the newly grown leaves of an oak tree sway in the breeze. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought it was interesting. Your father read that book too.”

At this, my stomach flutters and I stare at him. “He did?”

“Cover to cover. He used to ask me questions about … other dimensions. Or planes. I can’t remember the exact way he phrased it.”

“What did you tell him?” I try to sound casual, but my grip is too tight on the book. Excitement and Confusion lean over me.

Andrew picks up a pen and frowns at a paper on the desk. “I’m not really an expert on the subject, since my specialty is economics. But I gave him access to the college’s library, and the number of an old friend who used to dabble in the subject.”

Without thinking, I open my mouth to demand the name and number, and I’m saved when a student fills the doorway and ventures, “Professor Lomenta? Do you have a minute?”

Andrew hesitates, glancing at me.

I stand up, still clutching the book. “I better go, anyway.”

“Can you wait in the hallway for a moment, Jenny? I’ll be right there.”

The girl nods and leaves. Andrew focuses on me again. “Alex … I know you’re having a difficult time, especially lately, considering … ” He stops and clears his throat, fidgeting with his pen. Click. Click. Click. “But your parents would have wanted you to be happy.”

I force a smile, studying this awkward man that my father loved. Trusted. “I know, Andrew. Thanks.” A hug is a bit too much, so I just move to put the book back.

“You can borrow it, if you want,” he says.

I hesitate, but I already know there isn’t anything in this book that can help me. “No thanks.” The book slides back into its place with a soft sound.

“Alex.” When I turn yet again to meet his gaze, Andrew hesitates. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I’m surprised to see Apprehension appear behind him. Andrew’s eyes flick toward the window, toward those quivering leaves, and then he says, “Don’t come to my office again. If you need me, call, and we can meet somewhere. My house or a coffee shop. All right?”

He’s always serious, but there’s something different about his voice, a shadow that clings to the words. So I don’t argue. “No problem. See you around, Lomenta.”

This time he doesn’t stop me from reaching the doorway. I feel him watching me go, and he probably thinks whatever issue I had is resolved with his simple assurances. But it will take more than concern or kindness to make everything right.

What will make everything right? a little voice in my head asks me. Nate Foster’s death?

Maybe.

But that’s not what’s most important right now. No, what matters most is this new discovery, this burning knowledge that yearns to expand and grow. Something I should have known. It may mean nothing; it might mean everything.

My father saw them too.



Angus sits on the bench outside of Saul’s store, holding a jar in his hands.

The town clock is going off again. It does that every single hour, on the dot, no matter how annoying we find it or how much we complain. Just like Joe and his damn radio station, playing all that Elvis. Dong. Dong. Dong.

I slam the car door shut and approach my small neighbor. “What are you doing out here? Are your parents fighting again?” Angus just nods. I squat in front of him. “Is that a new jar?”

“Found it,” he mumbles, swiping at his nose. His sleeve leaves behind a streak of dirt. I smile a little, watching him use the edge of his shirt to clean the glass. He does so with a painstaking dedication that I’ve never given anything.

“How many jars does that make, now? Fifty?”

Angus shrugs. It’s strange, the fact that he’s more talkative through a wall than here, where the sun makes everything bright. Then again, maybe it does make sense. It’s easier in the dark, sometimes, with a barrier between you and everything else.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with them yet?” I press.

Nothing.

I stand and let Angus revel in the silence we don’t get in the apartments.

The moment I step through the front door I smell dinner. Well, I smell dinner burning. I set my bag on the floor and tug my boots off. With a heavy sensation in my chest, I wander down to the kitchen. The maps look older in the lamplight, and the harsh lines of the world seem softer. Saul has even more in his office, framed maps that are worth more money than anything else we own. They’re ancient and yellowed and treasured, and if looking at something could make it fade, Saul would have had lost his maps long ago. I’ve never asked him what he finds so fascinating about them; I’ve just accepted it. Same with Angus and his jars. We all cling to something.