If You're Out There(40)

Now it’s just a futon on a frame.

I sit down, winded by the emptiness, and run my nails along the scratchy canvas cover. A tiny whimper escapes me. Where are you, Priya?

I go downstairs and head for the kitchen. The tapestries Sita brought back from India have been removed from the walls, taking with them their colorful warmth. I always thought of them as a touch of her. Priya would pat the one with the elephant in passing—a sort of absentminded affection. And I’d often find myself staring into the next one over, sucked in by the hypnotic circular patterns, so full of motion, like a slow-turning kaleidoscope.

A couch and armchair still face the spot where a TV used to be. I walk the length of the naked hallway, clutching the straps of my backpack just for something to hold on to. The more I think, the harder it is to fill my lungs.

I find Logan rifling through kitchen drawers. At the table, I thumb through a few printed pages. It’s a copy of the California lease. Logan jumps when he sees me. “Sorry,” he says, panting slightly. “I feel like a bank robber in here.” There used to be pots and pans hanging from these walls, drawers filled with every kitchen gadget imaginable. Once in a while, Ben would get in a mood and whip up something fancy.

I walk to the office, only to stop short. “What?” calls Logan from the other room. I turn back but can’t speak.

Because there, in the doorway, is Priya’s bedazzled cell phone, shattered on the ground.

“Ben did say her phone broke,” says Logan after a long, heavy silence.

“I know,” I say. “I know. But . . . This doesn’t feel right.” I scrunch my eyes shut. “Do you think we should call the police?”

Logan flinches slightly, stepping the rest of the way into the office. “To say what? That we broke into your friend’s house and it feels weird?”

“It is weird. They left all this stuff!”

“It’s their house. They don’t have to take their stuff if they don’t want to.”

“Yes,” I say, growing frustrated. “But why leave so much? I could have sworn Ben said they were getting tenants. How do you rent out a house from California when it’s full of stuff? And what about the phone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe they were in a rush and Priya dropped it and they left it to deal with later. Anyway, it doesn’t change the fact that we weren’t supposed to be inside to see it in the first place.”

I hate that he’s resisting this. I sit and swivel back and forth in the desk chair to calm my nerves. Logan crouches down, his shoulder brushing against my leg, and pulls back with a few loose papers. I’m not even sure if he’s cute anymore. In fact, his face is kind of stupid. “What are these?” he asks, tidying the stack.

I take the papers—email chains and memos and documents covered in numbers. As I sift through, I spot the familiar logo of a little girl, reading in a cozy corner. “Must be something for GRETA—the charity Priya’s mom started. Ben’s still on their board.”

It’s a little strange, actually. Not once have I seen even a trace of paperwork left out in this office, let alone on the ground. Ben can be a mess sometimes, but usually not when it comes to his work. I shuffle through the stack, reading the emails.

There’s one from back in May, sent by Yasmine to one Headmaster Modi, with the subject “Fire at Friends Elementary.”

Vijay,

We are so glad all the students were all right. Is there really nothing we can do? It seems a shame to let the school shut down. If you are open to the possibility of rebuilding, this is certainly something we could explore together.

Another is from April, addressed to Anushka.

Dear Ms. Jha,

I am happy to tell you that we at Priti have received a large international grant.

After speaking with our accountant, it would appear we no longer qualify for your aid, but I would like to express my deepest gratitude to all of you at GRETA.

Wishing you the very best.

Amrit Ganglani

Head of Students

The last one makes me pause. It’s from Ben, to an email address without a full name attached: [email protected].

Please take my call.

“Mean anything to you?” asks Logan.

“Not really,” I say. I take off my backpack and slip the papers inside. “But I’ll hold on to them just in case.” I catch a glimpse of a picture frame that’s fallen beneath the desk. “Oh whoa,” I say. “This is her, Sita. Priya’s mom.”

I pick up the photo. She looked so much like Priya. Kind, warm eyes that make you feel at ease. I’m surprised Ben would leave this behind.

Logan takes the frame. “You said she had her own charity?”

“Yep. Inherited a shit-ton of money and then gave it all away.”

“Huh,” he says. “Why?”

“She was amazing, basically. Priya’s grandfather had, like, an empire. Textiles, hotels, all over Mumbai. Priya told me one time, as a teen, her mom snuck into one of their factories when she wasn’t supposed to. Totally freaked her out. Girls younger than her, working fourteen-hour days. She and her family never fought, but after she went to New York for college, she didn’t come back. Got some nonprofit job and started over. Then one day a check arrived.”

I hoist myself up, taking in the room once more. I open the closet. It’s mostly empty, with a few stacks of paperwork in files on the floor.