He answered on the second ring. "Brian? How are you feeling?"
"Something's happened." The words came out flat, hollow. "Ava's gone. She left the hospital in the middle of the night and she's not answering her phone."
"What do you mean, gone?"
"The nurse said she left hours ago. Said she had something important to take care of." My voice cracked. "Shane, I have a bad feeling about this."
A pause. "Okay. I'm going to run down to your apartment right now, see if she's there. Maybe she just went home to shower and get some sleep in a real bed."
"Yeah." I wanted to believe that. "Yeah, maybe."
"Sit tight. I'll call you back in five minutes."
The five minutes felt like five hours. I sat in that hospital bed, phone clutched in my hand, watching the seconds tick by on the clock above the door. Every possible scenario ran through my head—Ava at home, making coffee, just not hearing her phone. Ava in the shower. Ava asleep, exhausted from the night spent at my bedside.
My phone rang. Shane.
"She's not there." His voice was tight. "I knocked for five minutes. No answer. I can't hear Watson either."
I sat down on the edge of the bed without deciding to.
"I'm on my way to pick you up," Shane continued. "We'll figure this out."
Shane arrived twenty minutes later, helping me out of bed even though I insisted I could manage on my own.
"I've tried calling her three more times," he said. "Still not picking up."
"Something's wrong."
"Maybe she's on a call with her father. You know how those conversations go—could be hours." Shane's voice was calm and reasonable, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Let's get you home. Maybe she came back while I was on my way here."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe this was nothing—a misunderstanding, a miscommunication, Ava stepping outfor coffee, or fresh air, or any of the hundred innocent explanations that didn't end with her gone.
But the fear in my gut said otherwise.
The drive to the apartment felt endless. I tried calling her three more times. Voicemail every time.
Shane helped me to the elevator, his arm steady around my shoulders. Every breath sent pain radiating through my bruised ribs, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was getting inside, seeing her face, and hearing her explain why she'd left without telling me.
The elevator ride felt interminable. Three floors had never taken so long.
I opened the door.
Silence.
Not the comfortable silence of an apartment waiting for someone to come home. This was different. Hollow. The kind of silence that happens when something has been taken.
"Ava?"
No answer. No Watson appearing to wind between my legs, demanding breakfast. No coffee cups in the sink.
I walked through the apartment like I was moving through water. Living room—her book was gone from the coffee table. Kitchen—the sink was empty, the dish towel folded too neatly. Bathroom—her toothbrush was missing. Her shampoo, too.
"Brian." Shane's voice was quiet. Careful.
I turned. He was standing in the living room, holding a piece of paper.
"It was on the coffee table."
