Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie

the sound of the creaky second step, and a few minutes later he flushes the toilet and water flows through the pipes. Walking down the hall, into his room, probably dropping his watch and wallet on the bureau, tossing his clothes in the hamper. Then the squeaking bedsprings. Every night — at least the nights when he makes it upstairs — it’s the same routine. Once he’s snoring away, he’s out until morning, barring something really, really loud — like a train through the living room.
    I creep up the stairs and stand in the open door to the kitchen, listening for the bedsprings. Back downstairs, I slide under the covers. Shauna will be calling in less than two hours.
    And yet, for ten minutes I lie there awake, thinking.
    All that’s left of T.J. is in that bag.
    No way Dad would just throw away the flag from T.J.’s coffin. Wherever it is, the bag has to be there, too.
    I’m not giving up.
    I won’t give up until I find it. Or until there’s nowhere else to look.
    Yeah, I’ve already looked everywhere. Time to look harder. Time to start emptying boxes, moving furniture, banging on walls, and pulling up floorboards.
    I can snoop around the downstairs and out back in the shed or garage whenever.
    But I’ll take a look at Dad’s book, see where he’s scheduled to be the rest of the week. Whatever day he’s farthest away, I’ll tackle the upstairs again. Less chance he’ll stop home and catch me.
    Better wait until Thursday or Friday, at least. Maybe then I’ll have healed enough I can outrun him if I get caught.

A S THREATENED , S HAUNA CALLS EVERY COUPLE HOURS FOR all of Monday night into Tuesday morning, well past the time when it’s clear I’m not gonna slip into a coma. Eventually, I threaten to turn off my phone if she keeps it up, and she finally stops.
    With Dad gone and my phone silent, I sleep until lunchtime.
    But once I’m awake, I start to go stir-crazy. The quiet’s making me nuts. I’m climbing out of my skin. Too awake and jittery to sleep. Too achy to move. Kind of hungry, but too pukeish to actually try to make something.
    The stupid part is I miss Shauna’s calls. They’d be a good distraction. Especially because then we’d hang up and I’d be here, by myself, with time to kill and her voice still in my head.
    But she won’t call now, and there’s no way I can call her, not after making such a scene to get her to stop.
    The upstairs is tempting me. But it would be suicide to risk it today. He’s local, and no telling when he might decide to stop home. Worse, even if I had a couple hours, it’s not enough. I need a whole day so I can search hard but slow, and careful, and have time to put things back together right. One single thing out of place could give it away. Can’t risk it. Not today. Besides, I can barely move.
    I snuck into Dad’s bag last night and looked at his book. He’s local all week. But next week he’s scheduled to be way up north. Means he’ll leave early, be home late, and there’ll be no chance of him surprising me. I’ll have to find a way — go in late or cut out early, something.
    The phone rings, as if he’s sensed what I’m planning. The house phone. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID: Dad.
    “You up?”
    “Yes,” I say, trying not to shift and make the bedsprings squeak. And good morning to you, too, Dad.
    “Good. Enough lazing around. Find something productive to do.” The “or else” hangs there between us.
    “I already left a message for Mr. Anders to see if he can get me on a crew later this week.” It’s a lie, but a harmless one. Dad’ll never call Anders to check.
    Dad says something to someone else, his voice just as irritated as with me. Good to know that not all that pissed off is about me.
    “Call Anders again. See if he has anything tomorrow.” Tomorrow? “Dominick low-balled his bid on the display case, but he couldn’t go below twelve sixty-five.” Twelve hundred dollars? “I want this paid and done