Where Silence Gathers by Kelsey Sutton Page A

yank the door shut just in time. The car roars by, and my side view mirror shatters. I scream. The Taurus smirks at me with its red taillights, then it’s spinning onto the dirt turn that will eventually meet the county road.
    For a few seconds all I’m capable of is sitting there, panting and staring at the splintered, plastic stub where my mirror used to be. Did that really just happen? After another minute I fumble for my phone and dial the first number that takes no thought or effort. There’s a click , a female voice in my ear. My brain recognizes it. “Briana,” I whimper, pressing a hand to my face just to prove that this is all real.
    â€œAlex? What’s wrong?”
    The sound of her voice brings me back to myself. She’s worried. I realize I’m trembling and I close my eyes. “N-nothing. I just c-called to tell you I’m on my way.”
    There’s a pause. I can practically see her, analyzing the words and deciding the best course of action. She must decide to accept this. For now. “Okay,” she says finally. “I just got home myself, so I’ll be in the kitchen. Do pizza rolls sound good?”
    I swallow. The idea of food makes me want to vomit. “They sound great.”
    â€œSee you in a little bit, then!” she chirps.
    We hang up. But I don’t immediately move to change gears. Thump-thump. Thump-thump . My gaze falls on my backpack, hiding in the crevice under the glove box. The zipper is undone, exposing a glimpse of plaid. Without thinking about it, I lean down and grab it. A button snags. I tug at it, strangely desperate, and it comes free. The rain continues to soak me through the opening to my left, so cold I’m losing feeling, but that’s okay. I slump in the seat and hold Dad’s shirt. It smells like mildew and attic. What did Dad use to smell like? I should know this, I should know this …
    I’m clutching the material so tight that I feel it. Something in the pocket. Hard, rectangular, small. I dig it out and frown. A flash drive? But if it was in Dad’s pocket this entire time, it means that he had it on the day he died. He was a miner. His business was in dirt and machines and darkness. Not computers or files. Why would he have this?
    I need to know what’s on it.
    Fear’s essence still hasn’t entirely left me, but now the desire to find out all the secrets of Dad’s flash drive pushes me into motion. I shift the gear into drive and slam on the gas. Mud and rocks spew from beneath the tires, and as my car picks up speed, the voice doesn’t come back. I pass the turn that the Taurus vanished on and allow myself one glance. Trees lean over the road and angry clouds roll above it. The Taurus—and whoever was driving it—is long gone.
    I face front, clenching my jaw. A few miles further, Briana’s driveway appears on the right. Their crooked mailbox greets me, along with those faded letters on the side: BRINKMAN . Already I feel the tight sensation within me loosening, relaxing, unfurling. I don’t bother with the blinker and guide my car into the narrow space.
    Her house is as familiar to me as my own. It’s tiny, the siding yellow and rotting, and the shingles on the roof are quietly disappearing with each year that goes by. The best part about it is the four-season porch attached to the front. During the summers, when it’s so hot and muggy we feel like we’re going to melt, we lie in there and turn a fan on. Bugs battle the screen while we drawl long words into the spinning blades, enjoying the effect it has on our voices. As kids, we’d pretend we were aliens visiting this strange and frightening planet.
    Briana and I never had one of those memorable meetings or significant first words exchanged. She’s just always been there. Our mothers were best friends. They went to high school together, they married around the same time, and then Briana and I were