Page 42 of Shattered Fate

I’d still be, I don’t know, spying on cheating spouses in Pop’s old car, feeding Baby French fries and listening to Pop hound me about getting married.

But Max is dead, Zarah asked me to kiss her, and while I’m standing in Max’s living room over a year after his death, I wonder if I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing and a little voice that whispers, “No,” runs a chill colder than an icicle down my spine.

Fuck.

I can’t steal Zarah from my brother. He’s not here anymore, but that doesn’t mean I feel right about it, either.

His living room is jammed full of stuff, and a fine layer of dust covers every inch of every surface. I should have done this months ago, but I didn’t want to face my feelings. Had I knownZarah was going to be thrown into the mix, I would’ve done it a lot sooner. I feel guiltier than shit, remembering the way her lips lingered on mine.

I untie my laces and tug off my boots so I don’t track melted snow all over his carpet. I didn’t need Baby’s judgy blue eyes staring at me and I left her at home. She liked Max and mourned his loss in her own way. His scent would have made her sad.

I have the key Mike McClennan gave me in my pocket, but I have no idea how big the lockbox is, what’s going to be inside it, or where Max would have kept it. My brother was a packrat, and shelves and shelves of books and notebooks and little shit clog his living room. Mom insisted on doing a few things, and she washed the dishes that were left in the sink, took his trash to the dumpster, emptied the fridge, and cleaned the bathroom of all Max’s toiletries he didn’t bring to the Crowne, but that was all she would and could do. His will made it clear this was to be my job.

Mom and Rourke, I don’t think, had any idea what he’d been working on until he passed away. He kept his cases close to the vest, and he had numerous resources and snitches willing to talk because he staunchly protected his sources. It’s not a mystery why he played an instrumental role in destroying the Blacks’ empire.

His curiosity got him killed, and he died in Zane’s arms, Zarah’s name the last word on his lips.

Yep, I’m gonna love going through his apartment.

Storage space would be cheaper than paying rent, and I’m tempted to hire movers, pack up everything, and shove it all into a U-Haul unit without a second thought. But Max’s request tugs at me, and I regret burning the note he gave me. I didn’t want Zarah to see it. I didn’t want her to know how much Max reallyhadloved her. I was afraid that if she knew, we wouldn’t have a chance.

If you have a comfortable love, you don’t need squishy.

Max would have been her rock, and Zarah could have lived without the butterflies in her stomach. Passion is nothing but trouble.

I swallow back the burn in my throat and rub at the key in my jeans pocket, small and silver. Where would Max keep a lockbox? I put my PI skills to use and shuffle into his bedroom. The bed’s made, a pile of thrillers and true crime books on his nightstand.

Flipping up his bedspread, I use my phone’s flashlight and search under the bed. The dust bunnies are thicker under here, but I don’t see anything that needs a key. Files and cardboard boxes, an old laptop box, some of Smokey’s toys. I go around and look on the other side to check if I missed anything, but all I find is a mound of petrified cat puke.

I stand, my knees popping to thank me for the effort. A closed closet door hides more of the same. Files, lots of clothes, the vests he favored that made him look more like a university professor than a reporter. A plastic bedding bag that holds spare blankets.

There’s a desk and printer in Max’s second bedroom, and an air mattress is still blown up, though due to age, most of the air is gone. A thin blanket is piled on top of it. No pillow. A litter box that was emptied, either by Max or our mother, is wedged in a corner.

The FBI confiscated Max’s laptop during the investigation, and the desk’s surface is clear, only a blue pen lays off to the side near a notepad.

I sink onto the chair and run my fingers over the wood. I can picture him here, pounding out stories for the paper. Idly, I search the drawers, but there’s nothing except office supplies: stapler and extra staples, hole punch, notebooks andpens that haven’t been used yet. Printer paper. A thesaurus and dictionary. Paperclips. His laptop charger. More cat toys.

I didn’t think I would need this long to find a box, and sweating, I pull my jacket off and lay it over the back of the chair. The closet doesn’t have anything in it except old clothes Max didn’t wear anymore, and the shelf above them is empty.

In the kitchen, I search the cabinets. They’re full of expired canned goods, boxes of noodles, and cat treats.

He sure loved that cat.

Other drawers and cabinets reveal plates and bowls, cutlery. Saucepans and frying pans. He cooked decent meals for himself, at least, which is more than what I do when I’m alone.

A striped dishtowel hangs on the oven’s door handle.

For the hell of it, I open the fridge, and Mom left a six pack of beer on the top shelf. It’s a fussy brand I don’t buy, but I pull a bottle out of the cardboard and use the hem of my shirt to pry the top off. Leaning against the counter, I sip and swish the carbonated drink around my mouth. It wasn’t often Max and I shared a beer. At Mom’s once in a while if we were invited to the same events. Holidays. What would our relationship have been like if I would have extended an invitation to play a game of darts and drink a beer every once in a while? Would he have accepted? I was silent toward him, but he was the same. He didn’t call to bullshit, didn’t ask if I was seeing anybody to double date. He stayed on his side of the line.

I don’t remember if I drew the line or not. Maybe. Maybe because I always preferred to spend time with Pop, I drew the line and hadn’t even realized it.

Maybe he’d been waiting for me to step over it and I never did.

I walk out of the kitchen.

He wasn’t obvious about hiding the lockbox like most people who use a box to keep social security cards and birth certificates,car titles. I’ll have to get more inventive if I want to find it. Inside the stuffing of the couch, inside a chair’s upholstery. Behind the bookshelves.

In the bathroom, I slide the shower curtain aside, but the tub’s empty except for a spider hanging out, and so is the medicine cabinet and vanity, besides a few stray rolls of toilet paper Mom left behind under the sink. Nothing is taped to the bottom of the toilet’s tank lid, and I raise the lid of the actual toilet as well.

---