Thief of Souls by Neal Shusterman Read Free Book Online Page A

spotless convenience store was a disaster of running colors and wildly clashing aromas.
    Max, Tory’s boyfriend, surveyed the mess. “That’s not good,” he said lamely. “I told you we should have taken a basket.”
    The clerk ran out from behind the counter, his face stricken, as if someone had unexpectedly died in the aisle. “Look at this!” he shrieked. “How could you be so clumsy, you stupid, stupid girl!”
    He ran to the back room to get a mop. Tory was pale, unsteady. She gripped the handle of the glass refrigerator case to keep her balance.
    â€œAre you okay?” Max asked.
    She was shivering from the cold, although it wasn’t cold.
    She was recoiling from the touch of their hands, but no one was touching her.
    She was screaming, but it wasn’t her voice she heard—it was—
    â€œDillon!”
    Her boyfriend eyed her uncomfortably. The clerk returned with the mop, bucket, and about a gallon of Lysol. “Stupid, stupid girl,” he said again, in case Tory hadn’t heard him the first time.
    Tory grabbed Max’s hand, hoping his steady fingers would keep hers from shaking. “Let’s go.”
    â€œBut . . . the shopping list,” he said. “Your mom can’t make breakfast without—”
    â€œJust forget about the damned list!”
    Max gasped, and ripped his hand from hers. “Tory!” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”
    Tory sighed. “I’m sorry,” she told him. She grabbed his hand again, and he reluctantly clasped his fingers around hers.
    Behind them the clerk had mopped up much of the mess, yet continued mopping at the same maniacal pace, as if the spill were acid that would eat through the linoleum. Tory knew he would mop and mop until nothing was left to mar the purity of his clean white floor. It reminded Tory of the way she bathed. Compulsively scrubbing to pull away dirt she knew wasn’t there, but still felt all around her. These days, her skin was cover-girl smooth, instead of oozing with open, infected sores as it had been a year ago. Now her hair had a fine blonde sheen, instead of being a matted greasy mess. She had been cleansed beyond any shadow of doubt, but sometimes she could still feel the filth, like a ghost, and the only way to get rid of it was to wash and scrub. The way this ridiculous man scrubbed at his clean floor.
    Tory couldn’t watch, so she left, pulling Max along with her.
    The Sunday-morning streets of the neighborhood were full of people walking hand in hand. Children played games, the elderly sat on benches feeding exceptionally healthy pigeons. A Cuban couple smiled at a group of African-American teens on the corner, and they waved back. A Korean man walked a little Anglo girl across the street.
    â€œIt’s a nice morning,” Max said.
    â€œYes,” said Tory. “Nice.” The fact was, every morning was “nice” in her neighborhood. The streets were clean, the alleys were free of grunge, and anyone who didn’t pick up after their dog was reported by the Neighborhood Watch—which everyone belonged to. The neighborhood was safe, spotless, and uncorrupted. Strange, because this part of town was called “the Miami Miasma” and was the worst neighborhood of the notorious Floridian metropolis.
    â€œWhat happened back there?” asked Max.
    What happened? thought Tory. I think I got a wake-up call from an old friend. But all she said was, “I guess I slipped on the floor wax.”
    A policeman strolled past them, grinning. But when he took a look at Tory’s feet, his expression changed to one of suspicion.
    â€œHmpf,” he said, eyeing Tory warily as she passed.
    â€œMaybe you ought to roll down your socks,” whispered Max, “so people won’t see how dirty they are.”
    Tory glanced down to see a few stray spots of egg yolk splattered on her socks and Nikes. Normal