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I jerk, a reflex movement, and make a grab for the edge of the counter. I hit the glass, because not hitting it would be too much of a lucky stroke, and knock it off.
It crashes to the ground with a sound like a gunshot and Fuck. Me. This isn’t happening.
She’s alive.
Fuck.
Fuck!
“Mr. Tucker, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I struggle to pull myself together. “And again, who the hell are you?”
“John Adams. Her lawyer. I’m calling on her behalf.”
Her lawyer. Troubles with the law. Probably why she vanished. But it’s been fucking years…
“How did you get this number?” I bite out. “I sure as fuck didn’t give it to her.”
“That’s my business, Mr. Tucker. Your mother—”
“She can go to hell, for all I care.” Yet curiosity flares. “What did she do?”
“Mr. Tucker…” The guy sounds more tired than annoyed. “Ms. Cynthia Tucker was arrested for drug possession and trafficking.”
“Really.” Shocker. God, all I can think of is that she’s not dead. “Where is she?”
A short pause, during which the lawyer probably wonders how big an asshole a son can be, not caring about his mom, and not even knowing where she lives. “Indiana.”
“Indiana, huh? Has she been arrested before? Was she in prison?”
“Can we focus on the matter at hand, Mr. Tucker?”
“I don’t fucking care about the fucking matter at hand.” Fuck you, Mr. Lawyer. “Have yourself a good day.”
“Mr. Tucker, wait. Yes, your mother has been arrested before.” He pauses. “Look, the courts around here are backlogged. If she doesn’t make bail, she’s probably looking at sitting in jail for six months before her trial. She says you are her only living relative.”
My hands are shaking. He doesn’t know her, I remind myself. Doesn’t know me, either, doesn’t know us, our past, our history.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have called. Wouldn’t have expected yes for an answer—even if I had that kinda money, which I don’t.
“No,” I say into the phone, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. “Tell her no.”
Then I throw the cell against the wall and slide down to the glass-covered floor, trying to catch my breath.
***
That’s where Shane finds me when he comes later with some sandwiches and soda. He has a key to the apartment, though he comes by less often than Jesse or Micah, or even Ocean. He’s family, real blood and flesh. Our mothers are sisters.
Or rather were, until his died on the day that changed his life. Fucking nightmare. Hard to believe, knowing him now, that he wasn’t always so silent and lost inside his head. Funny thing is, he used to be the optimist of us both. The open-hearted, happy-go-lucky kid. The one who always cracked jokes and laughed.
Hard to believe these days.
He stands in the kitchen doorway and stares down at me. Barely blinks, the paper bag from the deli down the street and the sodas clutched in his hands. Dark hair has escaped his ponytail and is falling in his eyes.
“What the fuck happened here?” he says eventually. “Seffers. Why’re you sitting in this mess?”
“Because I can’t fucking get back up.” Didn’t even try. Kept thinking about my mom in jail. About the fine. About the past.
