stuck. I’d even moved back in temporarily, because Brandon’s problems seemed to stem from me not being there to supervise him. But we were in our mid-twenties now, and I couldn’t watch him forever. We both had lives to live. Separate lives.
“You toss his room?”
“Yeah,” Danielle nodded. “As much as I could, anyway. It’s already been pretty tossed.”
“He tosses it every time he needs money,” I said numbly. “Or when he’s looking for a fix he might’ve missed.”
It started with pills: Percocets at first, then Oxycontin. He chased them with alcohol for effect. Started swallowing Ambien at night, to force his body to sleep. It happened fast, as it so often did — spiraling quickly downward into something he just couldn’t control.
I knew… because I’d done exactly the same thing.
“He talks about you all the time,” my brother’s girlfriend went on. “How much he loves you. How much he misses you.”
My heart felt like a cinder-block, sinking in my chest. The guilt was crushing.
“Look, Danielle—”
“I don’t say those things to make you feel bad,” she countered quickly. “I’m just telling you because I thought you should know. He wants to get clean like you, his big brother. He cries and he tells me all the time.”
I took a long, deep breath. Brandon had always been faster than me, smarter than me. Better at sports. Even better at picking up girls. He had a level of charm and charisma that I could never hope to achieve, nor would I even try. And that’s because he was his own person. And I was mine.
But now…
Now my little brother lay across from me, his skin pale, drooling on the couch. He’d traded a good job for a shit one. A very nice car for a monthly bus ticket. And all because of drugs.
Fuck.
“He can’t get clean for me,” I said softly. “He has to get clean for himself. I’ve told him this. I just… don’t think he understands it.”
Danielle’s other hand clamped down over mine. She clutched the back of my hand hopefully.
“Then we make him understand it,” she said gravely. “Together. You and me.”
I exhaled slowly, looking out through the living room window. The sky was purple with the coming dawn. The world was silent. Frozen.
“Either that,” she sighed sadly, “or we lose him.”
Twenty-Eight
SLOANE
I took the preheated tongs in both hands, then carefully extracted the investment from the kiln. The metal flask itself glowed red-hot. Through the perfectly-spaced holes in the surface I could see the chalk-white plaster beneath, as I swung the whole thing over a barrel of water and dropped it in.
Hssssssssssssssssssss!
The dirty water churned and bubbled, like a witch’s cauldron. I always liked this part, especially since it was the penultimate moment. The final few seconds before you found out if your casting came out flawlessly or if you’d have to start all over again with another mold.
“You coming by again tonight?”
Mark’s voice startled me out of my happy little trance. He was definitely a sidler. The kind of guy who sidles up on people with an almost ninja-like efficiency.
“You keep sneaking up on people with hot tongs,” I advised him, “and you’re gonna get branded.”
He smiled, revealing surprisingly straight teeth considering his usual crooked smirk. “Ooohh!” he held his hands up dramatically.
“Just saying. It’s your funeral.”
I turned back to what I was doing, hoping that would be enough of a hint for him to go away. But Mark wasn’t one to take a hint.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
No asshole, I thought. I sure didn’t.
“What’s your question,” I sighed, knowing full well what he was about to ask.
“Are you coming by the foundry again tonight?” he repeated. “You know… after hours.”
I’d done my best to keep a low profile last week, on the several nights I’d used the place. I’d parked around back. I’d made sure I got there after the cleaning crew had left, and before the morning shifts arrived.
Still, he’d used the word ‘again’. And that worried me.
“I could help you know,” he said, repeating his offer. “The old man said you needed an assistant.”
“Thanks, but—”
“Actually he said you required an assistant,” Mark said slyly. “Not that you brought one with you last week, but—”
I whirled on him, still holding the tongs. “Are you spying on me?”
There was anger in my voice, but also dismay. So much that he took a step back.
“No,” he protested. “I— I just assumed.”
“Don’t assume,” I snapped. “And don’t come by, either. Mr. Drumm gave me permission to use the place, so