Those That Wake Read Online Free Page A

an ice pack," he said, "and ask me if I'm okay." A lie. He had gotten out of the house before the Fosters had even seen him.
    Sharon was a tired woman, washed out and wasting away, scrubbed at by a rough and bristled life. It was the same thing Mal thought he saw in the mirror; something strong in his face worn away, the defining and striking sharp edges dulled until strength had become sorrow and a gleam in his eyes had become a dull flatness.
    "And do they care that you aren't in school?"
    "If they do, that's their business now. Not yours. I'm here to talk about Tommy. Or are you finished with him, too?"
    Her jaw hardened. She bit something back, then nearly spat out her next words.
    "I told you already, I haven't actually
seen
him in months." As she sat on the edge of her couch, her face wasn't softening, but her fingers wouldn't stay still, searching for a smoke, or something more powerful. "Tommy always talked a good game and dropped the ball as soon as things got hard. He barely graduated, then he couldn't find work." She snorted. "I hounded him about it, but what the hell good did that ever do? He'd make a halfhearted try, then never follow up. George arranged an interview for him; more than one. Tommy didn't even bother showing up for the last one. George yelled at him, said it made him look bad; said Tommy had to pull his weight if he wanted to stay. Tommy said he'd pull his weight." She laughed, her eyes looking inward. "Pull his weight right out of George's house. And he did. Only solid decision he ever managed to stick to."
    Mal nodded. He had never been to this apartment, tiny and crowded with the objects of a life he had nothing to do with anymore. No light found its way in here, through the grimy windows. A bulky shadow loomed outside, cutting off the sun. He had not been in the same room with his mother more than three times since his father had marched out, pulling Mal behind him. But his mother still had the same harshness in her look, a look of perpetual accusation.
    "So he got a job, found a place," Mal supposed out loud.
    "I guess so," Sharon said. She didn't sound convinced.
    "You don't know what he was doing, nothing like that?"
    "Christ, Mal, at least I had his address. When's the last time you saw him?"
    "I didn't mean it like that." He
had
meant it like that. "What about his friends? Do you know any of them?"
    "Well, sure, there's Danny and Miles and Tony. Oh, you mean their
last
names, don't you? So we could, like, look them up and ask them about all this?" Her unpleasant sarcasm was also something he remembered well about her. "You're not the only one with a brain in your head, Mal. I never spent much time with his friends. I doubt I'd have been welcome to if I'd wanted to."
    Mal nodded. She was steamed, and he was only making it worse, which was their classic dynamic playing out beautifully to form. He saw it among guys at the gym again and again. Some climbed into the ring just because it meant a couple of bucks or some recognition or a chance to punch an anonymous face. Other fighters had it in for each other specifically, and it had nothing to do with a shared history. It was purely chemical. Mal and his mother had a history
and
they had that chemistry. They suffered through it, at each other's throats for the first eleven years of his life, when Sharon was sober enough to pitch a fight and wasn't bothering to have one with Mal's father.
    "How about a girlfriend?" It was all he had left. "A blond girl, real pretty." Sharon was shaking her head.
    Mal's eyes wandered around, and finally he nodded and stood up.
    "Okay," he said, instead of offering anything reassuring or hopeful. What did he owe her, exactly?
    "So, what, are you going to go back to his place?"
    "I guess I am. Maybe he'll show up."
    She led him to the door but stopped in front of it and held her place.
    "I think we should call the police," she said.
    What he thought about the police, generally, was that you shouldn't call them. But