Monday — Late Morning
Evelyn's Apartment
I pound on her door hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Evelyn. Open the door.”
Silence swallows the hallway.
I knock on the door again, louder. “Evelyn!”
Still nothing.
My heartbeat is too loud in my ears. Something is wrong. I know her silences—timid, angry, embarrassed, overwhelmed—but this? This is unnatural. I pull out the spare key she slipped into my hand on a Saturday night when she thought it meant nothing and I thought it meant everything.
I’ve never used it. I do now. The lock clicks open. The scent hits me first—lavender soap, vanilla candles, her shampoo. Everything looks the same. Her throw blanket was still draped over the couch. Her boots are by the door. Her favorite mug was in the sink with lipstick still faint on the rim.
My vision tunnels. “Evelyn?”
Nothing. I walk deeper inside, every instinct bristling. Her closet is open. Most of her clothes still hang inside. No suitcase missing. No overnight bag gone. Just… her laptop is missing from the desk.
And on the counter?
A printed copy of the resignation letter. Neat. Too neat. Not folded. Not creased. Placed deliberately. But the signature—It’s wrong. She signs her name with a looping H, a crooked y, a tiny heart she tries to hide when she’s embarrassed.
This signature is stiff. Impersonal. Forged. A cold, lethal certainty settles in my bones.
“No,” I breathe. “No fucking way.”
I grab my phone and call the only person I trust with this. Aiden answers on the third ring, chewing something loudly. “What?”
“She’s gone,” I say, my voice nothing but grit. “And I don’t think she left willingly.”
A beat of silence. Then Aiden’s voice turns sharp, all humor gone.
“Tell me everything.”