Page 22 of Fragments of the Lost
“Mia?” a deep voice calls. Two syllables, and I already know who it is, and my fear turns to anger as I’m throwing open the door, stomping inside.
Max steps back, his eyes widening, and he starts to speak. But not before I see what he’s done. The books are all knocked over on the shelves. The drawers are half open. The backpack is tipped over, contents strewn across the carpet. He’s rummaged through the open box; half the items are back out on the floor.
“What the hell are you doing!” I yell. I don’t even care if Mia or Eve hears me. I’m so furious I can’t stop it.
Max holds out his hands and winces. “Please, Jessa,” he’s saying, but I don’t understand what he’s asking.
A hiccup gets caught in my throat, and I feel tears burning my eyes as I look at the shelves. “What did youdo?”
He runs a hand down his face. “I’m looking for something,” he says, and he looks at me, really looks at me, his eyes locking with mine for the first time in forever. In months. “Please keep your voice down.” He looks over my shoulder, down the hallway. The noise of the pressure washer belowcontinues.
But then my eyes go blurry, Max goes blurry, and I feel the hot tears overflow, and I look away, so angry that I’m crying. “This isn’t yours. Nothing here belongs to you. Get. Out.”
And I must be pushing him, pushing him out, back to the steps, because his hands are on my upper arms, and he’s pleading with me again, even as he’s backing out of the room. “It’s mine,” he says, the words finally registering.
“What’s yours?” Certainly not this room. Certainly not these things. Certainly not the memories.
“What I’m looking for. It’s not Caleb’s. It’s mine.”
I stop moving, wondering what it is: shirts that I didn’t look at closely enough; notes from school that I dumped in a box. “What are you looking for, Max?”
He doesn’t answer at first. He looks over his shoulder. Over mine. I see his throat move as he swallows, but he won’t look me in the eye. “Money,” he says. And it’s so faint that I’m leaning closer without meaning to, just to check whether I’ve heard him correctly.
I shake my head. “There’s no money here.” I’ve been through the desk drawers, the pockets of his pants that he left on the floor. His wallet is gone, along with the rest of him. “If you lent him money, he probably had it on him. I think you’re going to have to forgive that debt. Seeing as he can’t possibly pay you back.” I think of salt water and ocean currents, sand and sea—an endless expanse, an immeasurable depth.
“I didn’t lend it to him,” he says.
I blink slowly, try to understand what he’s saying, though he doesn’t seem to want to spell it out.
“How much money?” I ask quietly, in case the question wants to disappear. In case he’d prefer not to answer, and I can pretend not to notice.
“Six hundred,” he says. “And nine.”
“You think he took six hundred dollars from you?” I say what he’s implying, since he won’t.
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“A while ago.” He shakes his head. “A few weeks before.”
“You think he took six hundred dollars—”
“—And nine.”
“Six hundred and nine dollars, and you didn’t ask him?”
“I wasn’t sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure. He was the only one in there. He’s the only one who knows where I keep it.”
There are so many reasons why this is impractical. First, Caleb didn’t need the money. The reason he could afford private school, I learned, was because his father had set up a trust in his name, in his will. A lawyer was in charge of the account, but the money was his, and he received a monthly stipend on top of bigger items he’d sometimes get approval for, like school tuition. He didn’t have to worry about affording college, like Max. He didn’t need the scholarship, or a job. But none of those things mattered as much as what I said. “Caleb wouldn’t steal from you. You’re his best friend.”
He narrows his eyes. “And best friends never take each other’s things, right?”
The heat rises to my face, I can’t stop it.
He brushes past me, his anger focused on me instead of Caleb.
He searches the shelves, the boxes. Kicks the garbage can, reaches his hand into the empty boxes of food. Moves the leftover hangers. It’s a vortex. A storm. I picture a structure being torn metal from metal, limb from limb.
