Chapter 70
The afternoon passes slowly. It’s Monday, which means I should be working, but after everything that’s happened, I don’t have much inclination.
And anyway, the only project I have is Catherine’s coffee shop design, and I want to show her the mood board—the real one—before I go too much further with that.
Having already messed up once, I don’t want to do it again.
I slink around the apartment and try not to dwell on all that I have lost. And as I do, I get to thinking.
Even though Frank assured me that the police never believed Jackie’s disappearance had anything to do with her living at the Glendale, I can’t shake the feeling that her experiences in this apartment were in some way connected to it.
There are just too many red flags with what she wrote in the notebook.
It makes me wonder if any of the other people who lived here had similar experiences?
I don’t know how many times this apartment has changed hands in the last eight years, but I do know that the last couple who lived here broke their contract and moved out early.
Catherine claimed it was because one of them had been offered a job in California.
Later, Jennifer said that the previous occupants had only stayed in the apartment for maybe six months.
Jennifer also mentioned their names, but I can’t remember them.
I do remember something else, though. Catherine had made it sound like they had only recently moved out, but Jennifer later said that she was glad to have new neighbors, that she was starting to think the apartment would be empty forever.
Frank corrected her, said that she was talking about how long the apartment might stay empty and not about how long ago the previous occupants had moved out.
But thinking back, there was something strange about Jennifer’s reaction, almost like she was trying to backpedal on her comment.
Which makes me even more curious about the people who lived here before us.
Did they really vacate because of a job offer, or was there another, less mundane reason for their hurried departure?
I need to know, and the obvious place to start is with Jennifer.
I fetch my phone and tap out a quick message, asking what their names were, how long ago they lived here, and when.
I give the message a quick read-through to ensure it makes sense—autocorrect loves to screw with me—then go to send it. Before I get that far, the phone rings.
It’s Sam.
I stare at the screen, caught in an internal tug-of-war between ignoring the call—because I know that letting him back into my life right now would only make the situation worse—and answering, because I still love him and being apart hurts more than I could ever have imagined.
In the end, the cold, hard voice of reason wins out, and I decline the call.
Soon after, the phone notifies me that I have a new voicemail.
I play the message, because hearing his voice is better than not hearing it.
“Hey, Jordan. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re doing okay.” There’s a brief pause. “I’m so confused about all of this, and I really think we should talk. I don’t like us being apart. It feels wrong . . . I love you. So, um, text me, or call, or . . . well, just let me know, all right?”
I listen to the message and blink away the tears that moisten my eyes.
One bit in particular echoes through my mind.
I love you. If only that were true, because his affair with Kalina would indicate otherwise.
Even so, I play the message again, then close my eyes and wrap myself in the sound of his voice.
And when it gets to the part where he says that he loves me, I mouth the sentiment silently back at him.
I love you, too. But as usual, his betrayal is never far away.
An inescapable truth that makes me want to scream with rage, and that is why I do not return his call.
Instead, I go back to Jennifer’s text message and hit send.
Then I wait for a reply, checking my phone every ten minutes and growing increasingly antsy.
Eventually, when my impatience reaches the boiling point, I decide to take a more direct approach and go next door in person.
But when I knock, no one answers. Disappointed, I turn back toward my apartment.
At that moment, a thought occurs to me. There might be another way to find out the names of the people who lived in the apartment before us.
I duck back into our apartment and grab the keys from the kitchen island, then head back out again toward the elevator.
When I reach the lobby, it’s empty—no big surprise at this point—but I’m not looking for Angelo.
Instead, I head straight for the mailboxes, which are in a small room off the lobby.
If my hunch is correct, I’ll soon know who lived in our apartment before we did.