Chapter 5 Olivia
Olivia
Ryan, please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
Iread the message once. Then again. Then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense.
An unknown number. Ten digits with no name attached, no contact saved, nothing to tell me who was on the other end except the desperate familiarity of the message itself. I scrolled up, my thumb searching for the history that belonged with a message like that, but the screen was a blank void.
Please answer.
Not "Mr. Hartley" or "Hey" or any of the careful distance you'd use with a colleague or a client. Just please, like they had the right to ask. Like they'd asked before and he'd answered.
I just want to know you're okay.
They cared. Whoever this was, they cared whether Ryan was safe. They were worried about him. And they had no idea that he wasn't okay, that he'd never be okay again, that he'd been gone for six days and was currently six feet under frozen ground in a cemetery on the other side of town.
My hands were shaking again. I set the phone down on the counter next to his wallet and his watch and took a step back, like distance would make it less real.
It didn't.
I couldn't call back. Couldn't text. What would I even say? Sorry, Ryan's dead, who is this? The thought of hearing a voice on the other end, of having to explain, of confirming what I already knew but didn't want to know—I couldn't do it.
But I needed to know who this was.
I grabbed my own phone and opened the browser, my fingers clumsy as I typed the number into Google. The results loaded and… nothing. Just articles about reverse phone lookup services and spam call databases. I tried adding quotation marks around it, searching again. Still nothing.
I opened one of the reverse lookup sites, the kind with banner ads promising to reveal anyone's identity for free. I entered the number and waited while the page loaded, a spinning wheel that felt like it was mocking me. Finally, the results appeared.
No information found for this number.
I kept trying, but each site came back empty, or wanted me to pay $29.99 for a full report that would probably tell me nothing anyway.
This person could be anyone. Someone I'd met, maybe someone who'd been to our house.
Or maybe—maybe it was nothing. A client Ryan had never bothered to save in his contacts.
Someone he'd worked with on a project, someone who was just checking in about a job and happened to phrase it in a way that sounded personal.
Architects had all kinds of clients. He could have been consulting on something, could have mentioned feeling under the weather, and now they were just following up.
That was possible, right?
That made sense.
Except it didn't. Not the way the message was worded. Not the please. Not the worry threaded through every word. And not the fact that there was no other trace of this number anywhere on his phone.
I picked up Ryan's phone again and stared at the message until the screen dimmed from inactivity. I tapped it awake, almost by instinct, and read it again.
Ryan, please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
The kitchen had gone dark while I wasn't paying attention. Outside the window, the sky had faded from gray to black, and I hadn't turned on a single light. The only illumination came from the phones on the counter, casting a cold blue glow across the granite.
I should call back. Or text. Something. But what would I say?
This is his wife. Who are you?
Ryan is no longer among us. Sorry you missed the funeral.
He can't answer because he's dead, but thanks for checking in.
Every version sounded wrong. Cruel or pathetic or both. And part of me—the part that was still desperately clinging to the idea that this might be nothing—didn't want to know the truth that lived on the other side of that number.
I set the phone down and walked to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window, pale and hollow-eyed. I looked wrong, like someone had hollowed me out and left the shell standing.
The phone buzzed.
I spun around. The screen was lit up, vibrating against the granite. Not a text this time.
A call.
The same number.
I stared at it. The buzzing felt impossibly loud in the silent house, rattling against the counter like an alarm. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Answer it. Don't answer it. Answer it.
My hand moved before I'd decided, reaching across the counter. My fingers closed around the phone and I watched my thumb hover over the green icon, trembling. I counted the vibrations against my palm, letting the phone vibrate three times before my thumb finally skidded across the glass.
I brought the phone to my ear.
Silence.
Not dead air—I could hear breathing on the other end. Shallow, waiting. Someone was there, listening, expecting Ryan's voice.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My throat had closed up.
The breathing shifted. Then, quietly, uncertainly:
"Ryan?"
A woman's voice.