Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ELLIE
Twenty Minutes Before
I can’t believe it’s come to this. It’s threatening to rain, and I’m standing outside what I think might be Mike’s apartment building, wearing a coat that’s more fashionable than functional.
All I’ve got to go on is a dodgy forum post from some anonymous fan who thinks sharing the local hockey team’s address is a public service. Not cool—but then again, neither is being ghosted after eight years and left with more questions than answers.
I should go home, forget the red folder, forget Mike Betts ever existed. But here I am.
As I look over the intercom system, I realise I don’t have a plan. I should probably write this whole thing off and go home.
Except, I can’t .
I’m rooted to the spot, wondering what I’m going to say to him.
What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he?—
I bite my lip, wondering why I didn’t think this through properly, when the sound of an engine revs behind me.
I swivel my head and spot a car covered in decals, progressing up the street. It slows to almost a stop before turning towards the entrance to a car park, stopping at the barrier briefly to swipe something before driving in.
I recognise those decals.
My heart beats a little faster at the idea this may not be a wasted journey after all. All I need to do is wait for the driver to park up and hopefully … hopefully, he’ll make his way around to the front of the building where I’m standing, and I can ask him if he knows Mike.
Simple.
But of course, it’s at this moment the rain starts. Cold February rain—and it’s not even a gradual spitting, it’s a full-on downpour that catches me out.
I dump my bag on to the floor under the canopy sheltering the entrance of the apartment block so I can rummage inside for my umbrella, pulling several items out before my fingers brush the handle at the very bottom of my bag.
I don’t realise the lobby door has opened until it slams shut again.
Crap.
My umbrella opens in a wrangled mess of aluminium as Mike’s teammate disappears behind the door marked ‘stairwell’.
I toss it into a nearby bin and pull the hood of my coat up, sticking as close as I can to the wall of the building.
The lobby is empty as I gaze through the window trying to come up with a plan ‘B’.
But since it looks like the only way in is to use a door access fob, or likely, someone buzzing you in via the intercom, I’m faced with two options: wait until someone comes or leaves and ask them, or press every single button on the calling system.
Here’s hoping someone will give me some information, or—best-case scenario—I buzz Mike’s apartment on the first try.
I wait it out, but after ten minutes of no one either leaving or returning home, I’m forced to push aside my pride and start ringing some apartments, because the longer I stand here, the more damp and uncomfortable I become.
There’s a metal panel on the left-hand side of the main door, two rows of buttons, each with a number etched above. I study the panel, wishing for another idea to float into my head but nothing comes.
Nothing.
I brace myself for the awkward conversation before pressing the button for ‘101’.
Several seconds pass as it rings out, and likewise, 102. I move on to 201 and someone does eventually answer, but they hang up almost instantly when I mention Mike’s name, which doesn’t give me a good feeling.
I’m wondering if this really is the right building or if that teammate of his was simply visiting a friend, but apartment 301 gives me the reassurance I need.
“He may or may not live in this building,” the voice says. “Who’s asking?”
“Ellie,” I say.
“Are you sure?” the voice says back.
“Yes…”
There’s a beat of silence before the voice carries on, a sceptical tone coming through the speaker.
“Right. So, this definitely isn’t Rochelle? Or Leah? Or…”
God—my sister was right. He is the type.
“No … my name is Ellie. I’m—” I can’t bring myself to say I’m an old friend. Friend is too strong a word. “—and I’m wondering if you know how I can get a hold of him?”
“Has he blocked your number? Because that’s a telltale sign he ain’t interested,” the voice says .
“No, no—it’s a long story. I’ve not seen him in a long time.”
“Probably a good reason for that—look, I’ve got to go.”
The intercom cuts, and I exhale in frustration.
My first instinct is to call them back, trying to explain myself but my embarrassment forces me to move on, so I press the call button for the next apartment, gearing myself up for more difficult conversation.
Someone picks up after only a couple of rings out.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for—I’m looking for Mike.”
“Who?”
“Michael Betts. Do you?—”
“Ah, yeah, Bettsy. Fifth floor.”
There’s a click as Mr 302 hangs up, and I celebrate the tiny win of not needing to call anyone on the fourth floor but allowing myself a second to breathe.
I try 501. It rings and rings, eventually cutting off, so I move on. 502 sounds like it’s going to be the same, until a second before I’m about to give up, the line turns fuzzy as someone answers.
“Yeah?”
The voice is curt, like I’m keeping someone from doing something important, so instead of dragging out an introduction, I dive straight in.
“I’m looking for Bettsy,” I say.
“He’s not around—wait … is this Rochelle?”
I blow out a breath. “No. But do you know where I can find him? It’s urgent.”
The guy sounds exasperated. “Give me a minute.”
The intercom cuts off and I stare at the little speaker in desperation. Should I call him back? Can he pick up the internal handset and connect to me? I’m rolling it over in my mind when the line crackles to my relief.
“You still there?” the voice says .
“Yeah—honestly, I don’t even want to see him. If you could pass a message on for me—maybe give him my number and tell him to text me or something.”
The guy sighs. “Right … but look, I’m sort of busy and?—”
“Please, can you pass on my number?”
He clears his throat. “If you tried an apartment on the eighth floor, you may find that he’s there—though I didn’t tell you that.”
He hangs up, and despite my frustration, I don’t waste anymore time. I hit the button for apartment 801 and wait.
There’re approximately three rings before someone picks up.
“Hello?”
“I’m looking for Mike Betts—Bettsy. I’m looking for Bettsy,” I say, almost robotically.
There’s a pause before the guy responds. “Umm, he’s just stepped out, but who shall I say is calling?”
I freeze, like a rabbit caught in headlights, completely dumfounded that I found him. It takes my brain a second to catch up, realising that the guy on the other side of the intercom is waiting for me to reply.
“Uh … can you tell him it’s Ellie—Ellie Kitchener,” I say, then I add, “Kitch,” because he made that a thing, for some reason. Maybe it’ll prompt a memory, or something.
I’m about to ask the guy on the line if he can take my number to pass on when he speaks again.
“He said he’ll be right down.”
Ah, crap.
My pulse thuds in my ears because I haven’t seen Mike in around eight years, and I have no idea what to expect. Will I recognise him? Will he recognise me?
I take a deep breath, telling myself that all I need to do is hand him Greg’s business card and get the heck out of here. But there’s a noise from inside that has me almost shaking with anticipation …
I think he’s coming .
The door to the stairwell opens, and a figure fills the doorway. He’s wearing a tracksuit, like one of those team issue ones, with the hood of his top pulled up over his head. And a sickly feeling of loathing fills my stomach.
His amber eyes meet mine and there’s a tinge of a smile on his lips.
And he’s got the audacity to have aged well.
As if.
He presses a button on the inside of the lobby and there’s a mechanical clunk as the door unlatches; and a moment later, I come face to face with Michael Betts.