Chapter 3 #2
I try a third time, gripping the phone so tightly it might crack in my hand. Nothing.
My chest tightens, breath catching somewhere between panic and disbelief. Whatever that call was—whatever she was trying to say—it felt like a warning. Or a goodbye.
I sit down at the edge of the couch, phone still in my hand, and scroll to the one person who always picks up. Or at least answers honestly.
Bell and I rarely talk on the phone. We text, we meme, we share gossip at odd hours and trauma dump in bursts of sarcasm. But right now, I need her voice.
She answers on the third ring. “Wow. Okay. Phone call. What’s happening—are you dying?”
“Have you heard anything from Julianne?”
Bella pauses. “Julianne?”
“She just called. Frantic. I couldn’t understand her. She said something about someone not to trust, and then the call dropped. I’ve been trying to reach her for four days, and now this.”
Bella’s voice tightens. “No. No, I haven’t heard anything. The last time I saw her was…last week? Yeah, at church. She looked kind of out of it. Distracted. Quiet.”
“Quiet how?”
“Like…like she wasn’t really there. Smiling at people, but not listening. You know that thing she does when she’s trying to act normal but she’s clearly somewhere else? That.”
I close my eyes. “And you didn’t think to tell me that?”
“You hadn’t said anything, Adriana. And it makes sense for her to spiral a little—her best friend dropped off the face of the earth.”
My eyes snap open. “What?”
Bella sighs. “Anya. You remember Anya? The one Julianne was always glued to. They basically shared a brain. She’s been missing for like…two weeks now.”
A cold chill moves through me. “You’re just telling me this now?”
“You’ve been buried in your Serrano thing,” Bella says, more gently now. “I didn’t want to dump more on you if it was just a friendship breakup.”
But it’s not just that. I feel it in my gut. Anya’s missing. Julianne’s scared. Something’s wrong, and it’s closer to home than I thought.
“Do you know if anyone filed a report?”
“No clue. I can ask around. But you don’t think it’s connected, do you?”
I don’t answer. Not yet. Because the more I think about it, the more I know—everything is connected.
Bella exhales slowly on the other end. “Okay, look. This might be a stretch, but have you thought about calling Maksim?”
I pause. “Maksim?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You all grew up together. He has connections. If something’s going on with Julianne and it’s bad, there’s a chance he’s heard something.”
I lean back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. My stomach knots at just the mention of his name.
“We haven’t spoken in years.”
Bella doesn’t fill the silence. She knows better.
“He’s not the kind of guy you just call,” I add. “Not anymore.”
“He used to be.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, rubbing the edge of my thumb with my nail, “I left that world behind a long time ago. And even though he’s my friend, he’s still a part of it, still a problem.”
Bella sighs. “I know. But you trusted him once.”
That part’s true.
Maksim wasn’t just some family friend. He was at every birthday party, every barbecue. He knew where the spare key was to our house. My dad taught him how to fix a tire, same way he taught me.
He and Julianne were always tight, louder, funnier, more confident. I was the third. The one reading in the corner or holding someone’s backpack.
I never told anyone I liked him. I didn’t have to. It was obvious to everyone but him.
For a while, I don’t call. But I can’t drop the idea either.
I wait until the sky starts to dim, until the apartment feels small and I can’t sit still anymore. My phone’s been on the coffee table all afternoon, Maksim’s name staring up at me like a challenge.
Eventually, I tap call.
It rings twice, then nothing. Straight to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message.
I toss the phone onto the couch and walk to the kitchen, make tea just to have something to do. I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised. He probably saw my name and decided not to get involved. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Julianne’s name. My stomach is tight, fingers cold. I call.
The line rings twice before someone picks up. But it’s not her.
“Adriana,” my father says.
I sit up straighter. “Dad?”
His voice is low, steady. But not normal. There’s something held too tightly beneath it.
“Where is Julianne?” I ask.
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing, but he doesn’t speak.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” he says.
I freeze. “What do you mean she’s gone?”
Silence.
“Dad!” I yell despite myself. “What do you mean?”
But the line clicks. Dead.
I stare at the phone, disbelief spreading through me like ice. I try calling back, but the phone is switched off.
I call again, this time with shaking fingers, and when it goes straight to voicemail, I try the next number. Maksim.
No answer.
I sit there, phone clutched tight, something cold moving through my chest. Not panic. Not yet. But it’s close.
I stand, grab my bag from the floor, and start throwing things into it. Charger. Notebook. My backup recorder. A sweater. I check the train times out of habit.
I don’t even lock the door behind me.
It’s time to go home.