Silence

Editorial Reviews

About the Author

Becca Fitzpatrick is the author of Black Ice, Dangerous Lies, and the Hush, Hush saga, including Hush, Hush; Crescendo; Silence; and Finale—all four of which debuted as New York Times bestsellers. She graduated college with a degree in health, which she promptly abandoned for storytelling. When not writing, she's most likely running, prowling sales racks for shoes, or watching crime dramas on TV. She lives in Colorado with her family. Find out more at BeccaFitzpatrick.com.

From School Library Journal

Grade 9 Up—High school sophomore Nora Grey, a dedicated student striving for a college scholarship, lives with her widowed mother in a country farmhouse outside Portland, ME. When Patch, her new biology partner, is suddenly thrust into her life, Nora is both attracted to his charm and put off by his inexplicable awareness of her thoughts. Eventually, she learns that he is a fallen angel who wants to become human. She is susceptible to his control, but other forces are at work as well, and Nora finds herself caught in the middle of dangerous situations and unexplainable events. The premise of Hush, Hush—that fallen angels exist and interact with humans on Earth—is worthy of contemplation and appealing to teens. But stories with such supernatural themes require that the details of day-to-day life be realistic and believable. Unfortunately, most readers won't be convinced that a mother whose husband has recently been murdered would leave her daughter alone overnight in their home far from the nearest neighbor or that a school counselor would be replaced by someone whose credentials were not checked. While teens may enjoy the scenes of tension and terror, most will be disappointed by characters without dimension and the illogical sequence of events.—Sue Lloyd, Franklin High School, Livonia, MI
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Review

"A thrilling debut." --Kirkus Reviews

"A gripping chiller... Fitzpatrick regularly tweaks the tension, resulting in a fast-paced, exhilarating read. Nora's tempestuous relationship with prototypical bad boy Patch is genuinely, even unsettling seductive- fans of paranormal romance should be rapt." - Publishers Weekly

"Horror and romance fans who are weary of the werewolf (and vampire) next door will welcome this new take on the heart of darkness." --Booklist

""Hush, Hush" has great atmosphere, and had me wondering where in the world -- or out of the world -- this story could go. If the guys had been this dangerous and delicious when I was in high school, I would never have wanted to graduate! I see more fallen angel stories coming from this talented writer." -- Sandra Brown, bestselling author of "White Hot" and "Smoke Screen" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Review

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Amazon.com Review

Amazon Exclusive: Jenny Han Interviews Becca Fitzpatrick

Jenny Han is the author of We'll Always Have Summer, It's Not Summer Without You, and The Summer I Turned Pretty.

Jenny Han: Writerly questions first. Do you write every day?

Becca Fitzpatrick: I write Monday through Friday. I take the weekends off.

JH: Do you outline?

BF: I didn't used to. But writing Crescendo made me a firm believer in outlining. With a book coming out every year, I don't have time to mess up. I think five years would be my optimal time period for writing a book, but with the nature of a series, I think that would make fans very antsy! When I'm on a deadline, every day counts. I feel an urgency to get the story right the first time.

JH: Did you find the series schedule grueling, doing one book a year?

BF: So many authors say the second book is hard, and they're right. Writing Crescendo was super stressful. The whole time, I kept thinking, I'm never writing a book again. All that pressure, to finish on time, and I also had readers' expectations to think about.

JH: Becca, trust me when I say you more than exceeded them with Silence. When I got to the end of the book, I was so excited Nora's story wasn't over yet. When did you know it would be four books instead of three?

BF: When I was nearing the end of Silence, I kept trying to wrap everything up. I'd planned on ending Patch and Nora's story there, and I wanted to stick to the plan. But a nagging voice at the back of my mind told me I needed to write one more book that takes place during Cheshvan. Those who've read my books know that Cheshvan is the time of year when fallen angels sweep in and possess Nephilim bodies by the droves. I heavily allude to Cheshvan during the first three books, but have never set any of the novels during those dark and haunted weeks. For readers who've been anxiously awaiting a final showdown between fallen angels and Nephilim—-with Patch and Nora torn between sides-—I can't wait for you to read the fourth and final book.

JH: That's genius! Now that you say that, it feels like a fourth book was an inevitability, because how could you even think of keeping all that from us?! Or rather, how could you think of keeping more Patch from us?! Patch is easily one of the sexiest guys in YA literature ever. He's flirty, he's dangerous, he's dark. Is he the guy you would have gone for in high school?

BF: My boyfriend in high school was smart, athletic, and sensitive. He played the saxophone and the piano-—really well. In other words, not a lot of commonalities with Patch. I was crazy in love with him, and so many of my high school memories revolve around him. But I always wondered what it would have been like to fall hard for the baddest of the bad boys-—the guys who made you nervous with a single look, whose thoughts you never could guess. Several novels later, Patch still feels that way to me—-dangerous and impenetrable. I don't think he'd be the least bit disappointed to learn this!

JH: I feel like there's a part of Nora that still doesn't trust Patch completely. Do you think she's justified?

BF: I think it would be very difficult to open myself up completely to someone with a history as dark and sinister as Patch's, so I don't blame Nora for any unsteadiness in love. Nora trusts Patch, believes in him, and their relationship has grown stronger through each trial they've faced, but she also knows she can't change him. He wants to be the story's hero, but he's in a constant battle with the man he wants to become... and the man he is. The temptation to return to his old lifestyle is relentless.

JH: That makes him even hotter to me. I guess we know who I would choose—-always the impenetrable bad boy, every time! Which is not to say that I don't find the other man in Nora's life intriguing... Speaking of, would you rather be a fallen angel or Nephilim?

BF: I have a lot of sympathy for Nephilim. I don't think Chauncey Langeais is entirely wrong for hating Patch and trying to get revenge. I can't imagine anything worse than having your body ripped away every October and possessed by a menacing creature. And while it seems fallen angels have all the fun, I'm going to choose Nephilim. But maybe that's because I know something readers don't. Something unexpected and terrifying that happens to fallen angels in Book Four....

JH: After you close out the series, what's next for you?

BF: It's been very hard knowing that soon I'll have to say good-bye to Patch, Nora, Vee, Scott, and even Marcie. But at the same time, I feel there are other characters living in the back of my mind, waiting for their stories to be told. I've always been drawn to writing dark, sexy, and twisty novels, and hopefully I'll be starting a new one very soon!

Becca Fitzpatrick's Silence playlist

Becca Fitzpatrick, author of the Hush, Hush Saga, shares the songs she hears in her head as the soundtrack to Silence, book 3 in the internationally best-selling series. The list includes classics that Patch would love, like "Paint it Black," and Florence and the Machine's "Blinding," which you can picture Nora and Vee singing along to in the car. And, of course, the soundtrack includes some slower, romantic tunes. Who knows? Maybe one of them will be Patch and Nora's song one day. Listen to Becca's playlists.

Becca Fitzpatrick's Playlist

"Angry Angel" by Imogen Heap

"Paint it Black" by Rolling Stones

"Mad World" by Tears for Fears

"Blinding" by Florence And The Machine

"Back in Black" by AC/DC

"Bizarre Love Triangle" by Donna Lewis

"Love Walks In" by Lenka

"Trouble is a Friend" by Jane's Addiction

"The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson

"Fall For You" by Secondhand Serenade

"Always" by Bon Jovi

"All I Want Is You" by U2

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER
1
COLDWATER, MAINE PRESENT DAY

EVEN BEFORE I OPENED MY EYES, I KNEW I WAS IN danger.

I stirred at the soft crunch of footsteps drawing closer. A dim flicker of sleep remained, dulling my focus. I was flat on my back, a chill seeping through my shirt. My neck was crooked at a painful angle, and I opened my eyes. Thin stones loomed out of the blue-black fog. For a strange suspended moment, an image of crooked teeth came to mind, and then I saw them for what they really were. Gravestones.

I tried to push myself up to sitting, but my hands slipped on the wet grass. Fighting the haze of sleep still curled around my mind, I rolled sideways off a half-sunken grave, feeling my way through the vapor. The knees of my pants soaked up dew as I crawled between the haphazardly placed graves and monuments. Mild recognition hovered, but it was a side thought; I couldn't bring myself to focus through the excruciating pain radiating inside my skull.

I crawled along a wrought-iron fence, tamping down a layer of decaying leaves that had been years in the making. A ghoulish howl drifted down from above, and while it sent a shudder through me, it wasn't the sound I was most frightened of. The footsteps trampled over the grass behind me, but whether they were near or far I couldn't tell. A shout of pursuit cut through the mist, and I hurried my pace. I knew instinctively that I had to hide, but I was disoriented; it was too dark to see clearly, the eerie blue fog casting spells before my eyes.

In the distance, trapped between two walls of spindly and overgrown trees, a white stone mausoleum glowed through the night. Rising to my feet, I ran toward it.

I slipped between two marble monuments, and when I came out on the other side, he was waiting for me. A towering silhouette, his arm raised to strike. I tripped backward. As I fell, I realized my mistake: He was made of stone. An angel raised on a pediment, guarding the dead. I might have smothered a nervous laugh, but my head collided against something hard, jarring the world sideways. Darkness encroached on my vision.

I couldn't have been out for long. When the stark black of unconsciousness faded, I was still breathing hard from the exertion of running. I knew I had to get up, but I couldn't remember why. So I lay there, the icy dew mingling with the warm sweat of my skin. At long last I blinked, and it was then that the nearest headstone sharpened into focus. The engraved letters of the epitaph snapped into single-file lines.

HARRISON GREY
A DEVOTED HUSBAND AND FATHER
DIED MARCH 16, 2008

I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. Now I understood the familiar shadow that had lurked over my shoulder since waking up minutes ago. I was in Coldwater's city cemetery. At my dad's gravesite.

A nightmare, I thought. I haven't really woken yet. This is all just a horrible dream.

The angel watched me, his chipped wings unfurled behind him, his right arm pointing across the cemetery. His expression was carefully detached, but the curve of his lips was more wry than benevolent. For one moment, I was almost able to trick myself into believing he was real and I wasn't alone.

I smiled at him, then felt my lip quiver. I dragged my sleeve along my cheekbone, wiping away tears, though I didn't remember starting to cry. I desperately wanted to climb into his arms, feeling the beat of his wings on air as he flew us over the gates and away from this place.

The resumed sound of footsteps pulled me out of my stupor. They were faster now, crashing through the grass.

I turned toward the sound, bewildered by the bob of light twinkling in and out of the misty darkness. Its beam rose and fell to the cadence of the footsteps—crunch … sweep … crunch … sweep—

A flashlight.

I squinted when the light came to a stop between my eyes, dazzling me blind. I had the terrible realization that I definitely wasn't dreaming.

"Lookie here," a man's voice snarled, hidden behind the glare of light. "You can't be here. Cemetery is closed."

I turned my face away, specks of light still dancing behind my eyelids.

"How many others are there?" he demanded.

"What?" My voice was a dry whisper.

"How many more are here with you?" he continued more aggressively. "Thought you'd come out and play night games, did you? Hide-and-seek, I reckon? Or maybe Ghosts in the Graveyard? Not on my watch, you aren't!"

What was I doing here? Had I come to visit my dad? I fished through my memory, but it was disturbingly empty. I couldn't remember coming to the cemetery. I couldn't remember much of anything. It was as if the whole night had been ripped out from under my feet.

Worse, I couldn't remember this morning.

I couldn't remember dressing, eating, school. Was it even a school day?

Momentarily shoving my panic deep down, I concentrated on orienting myself physically and accepted the man's outstretched hand. As soon as I was sitting upright, the flashlight glared at me again. "How old are you?" he wanted to know.

Finally something I knew for certain. "Sixteen." Almost seventeen. My birthday was coming up in August.

"What in the Sam Hill are you doing out here by yourself? Don't you know it's past curfew?"

I looked around helplessly. "I—"

"You ain't a runaway, are you? Just tell me you've got someplace to go."

"Yes." The farmhouse. At the sudden recollection of home, my heart lifted, followed by the sensation of my stomach plummeting to my knees. Out after curfew? How long after? I tried unsuccessfully to shut out the image of my mom's enraged expression when I walked through the front door.

"Does 'yes' got an address?"

"Hawthorne Lane." I stood, but swayed violently when blood rushed to my head. Why couldn't I remember how I'd gotten here? Surely I'd driven. But where had I parked the Fiat? And where was my handbag? My keys?

"Been drinking?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

I shook my head.

The beam of the flashlight had slipped marginally off my face, when suddenly it was square between my eyes yet again.

"Hold on a second," he said, a note of something I didn't like slipping into his voice. "You're not that girl, are you? Nora Grey," he blurted, as if my name was a knee-jerk response.

I retreated a step. "How—do you know my name?"

"The TV. The reward. Hank Millar posted it."

Whatever he said next floated past. Marcie Millar was the closest thing I had to an archenemy. What did her dad have to do with this?

"They've been looking for you since end of June."

"June?" I repeated, a drop of panic splattering inside me. "What are you talking about? It's April." And who was looking for me? Hank Millar? Why?

"April?" He eyed me queerly. "Why, girlie, it's September."

September? No. It couldn't be. I would know if sophomore year had ended. I would know if summer vacation had come and gone. I'd woken up a mere handful of minutes ago, disoriented, yes, but not stupid.

But what reason did he have to lie?

With the flashlight lowered, I looked him over, getting my first full picture. His jeans were stained, his facial hair tufted from days without a razor, his fingernails long and black under the tips. He looked an awful lot like the vagabonds who wandered the railroad tracks and shacked up by the river during the summer months. They were known to carry weapons.

"You're right, I should be getting home," I said, backing away, brushing my hand against my pocket. The familiar bump of my cell phone was missing. Same with my car keys.

"Now just where do you think you're going?" he asked, coming after me.

My stomach cramped at his sudden movement, and I broke into a run. I raced in the direction the stone angel pointed, hoping it led to a south gate. I would have used the north gate, the one I was familiar with, but it would have required me to run toward the man, instead of away. The ground cut away beneath my feet, and I stumbled downhill. Branches scraped my arms; my shoes slapped against the uneven and rocky ground.

"Nora!" the man shouted.

I wanted to shake myself for telling him I lived on Hawthorne Lane. What if he followed me?

His stride was longer, and I heard him tramping behind me, closing in. I flung my arms wildly, beating back the branches that sank like claws into my clothes. His hand clamped my shoulder, and I swung around, batting it away. "Don't touch me!"

"Now hold on a minute. I told you about the reward, and I aim to get it."

He lunged for my arm a second time, and on a shot of adrenaline, I drove my foot into his shin.

"Uuhn!" He doubled over, clutching his lower leg.

I was shocked by my violence, but I didn't have any other choice. Staggering back a few steps, I cast a hasty look around, trying to get my bearings. Sweat dampened my shirt, slinking down my backbone, causing every hair on my body to stand tall. Something was off. Even with my groggy memory, I had a clear map of the cemetery in my head—I'd been here countless times to visit my dad's grave—but while the cemetery felt familiar, down to every last detail including the overwhelming smell of burning leaves and stale pond water, something about its appearance was off.

And then I put my finger on it.

The maple trees were speckled with red. A sign of impending autumn. But that wasn't possible. It was April, not September. How...

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Product details

• ASIN ‏ : ‎ B004U7G7LK
• Publisher ‏ : ‎ Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers; Reprint edition (October 4, 2011)
• Publication date ‏ : ‎ October 4, 2011
• Language ‏ : ‎ English
• Print length ‏ : ‎ 449 pages