Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(56)

“I don’t have the key,” I inform him, and an extraordinary quiver takes over my voice. Questions race through me, and the loudest … Who is this man?

Without answering, the man stares at me for a few heart-stopping moments, taking in my near-naked state. I begin to think he’s not going to help, but then he walks around me to stand in the spot where Stephanie secured the chains. I catch a whiff of his scent. A combination of something fresh and something … not. As if one smell is supposed to hide the other.

He’s still silent, probably examining the lock. “Lucky for you,” he finally says, “I make it a habit to be prepared for situations just like this.” His voice jars something inside of me—it’s smooth and confident, like the strum of a violin—and an impulse to flee fills every corner of my being. Do I know him?

Mindless of my internal struggle, the man begins the work to free me. There’s the sound of a pick digging around in the lock. I should thank him. For some reason, though, I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat, a rock, a cluster of …

Fear.

Where is he? Where is he? Why wouldn’t he come?

Calm, a voice in my head advises. Stay calm.

My rescuer doesn’t work in silence for long. “So how did you get yourself in this predicament?” he asks me. His finger slips on the lock pick, and his surprisingly sharp nail slices my arm. I wince.

“Some girls at school,” is all I say. Wrong, my instincts keep whispering. Something about him is so familiar …

The man seems satisfied with this, and I hear a smile in his voice when he replies, “Yes, I’ve been to a few high schools. Hard to believe children can be cruel so young. And it only gets worse.”

When the lock opens with a loud click and the man unwraps the chains from around me, I manage to speak again. “So what brings you to the school at this time of day?” I rub my raw wrists. My stomach has indents where the links were pressed against me.

I look up and catch the man staring at me again. When I clear my throat, something in his gaze flickers, and that strange half-smile appears again. “I was passing by and heard you calling for help,” he tells me.

I’m hardly paying attention because I’m so distracted by his expression. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Rather than curiosity or boredom as I would have expected, this man who saved me is watching my every move with … hunger.

“May I borrow your jacket?” I ask, a bit too formally. Being alone with him is still causing my senses to quake. Leave. Leave. The power around me is cracking, I can feel it—fear still edges in, trying to consume. Where is he? Where are the other Emotions? Why don’t they come? Am I breaking through the wall?

The man doesn’t move to give his jacket to me. “You look familiar,” he says instead, like he’s reading my mind. “What’s your name?” He cocks his head, and I’m suddenly picturing a wild predator about to pounce. I forget about covering myself and proceed with caution.

“I’m Elizabeth. And I really have to go. Parents waiting and all that. But thank you for helping me.” I’m not going to ask what I can do to repay him.

He doesn’t respond, so I move to pass him. We do a little dance. I step to the left in an attempt to go to my truck, and he blocks me. It’s clearly intentional, because when I start to the right, he follows again. His feet hardly make any sound on the ground. I purse my lips, trying to hide that faint feeling of agitation deep within me. Strangely enough, I want my nothingness back. I need it back …

Just barely, the floodgate in my wall opens.

Please come back, please.

You did this.

“What are you thinking about, Elizabeth?” The man has gotten closer without my realizing it. Reacting automatically, I dart around him.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to be going,” I call over my shoulder. He doesn’t try to stop me again. He just stands there with that strange smirk, head tilted. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and I get the distinct impression that the pick isn’t the only thing hidden in those depths.

It isn’t until I pull on the handle to the driver’s door that I realize I don’t have the keys—they’re in my bag, which I stuck behind some bushes by the front doors of the school. I remember that I also might have a sweater in there. I can feel the man’s unfaltering eyes on me the entire time as I quickly jog to my bag, dig around in it for both my keys and the sweater—it turns out to be a windbreaker—zip it on, throw the bag over my shoulder, and run back to my truck.

The man still doesn’t say a word. The absolute silence feels alien, and my fingers are still shaking as I grasp my keys and shove them into the door. The worn material of the seats rubs against my skin as I get in, but I scarcely notice. I’m concentrating on the steps, focusing only my hands.

Close the door. Lock it. Put your bag in passenger seat. Put the key in the ignition. Turn it.

Nothing. Silence.

I turn the key. Again. And again. No, no, no, no …

After a few more turns, I stop. It’s futile.

The man has been waiting patiently. When he sees that I’m done, he lopes around to my window, tapping on it with the back of his knuckle, a delicate movement. My heart is pounding and my hands are sweating. There is something very, very wrong here. I roll the window down just a crack, choosing to stare at his perfectly white teeth rather than his cold eyes.