This is how every true-crime podcast starts. A woman enters a quiet apartment with evidence of disturbance. She calls out cheerfully before she becomes a cautionary tale in episode two.
I can already hear my mother sobbing into a microphone:She was so capable. She was so smart. We never thought—
Carey would give a statement in her most polished tragic voice:Natalia was brilliant but reckless. I always worried—
"Stop it," I mutter to myself. "You’re being insane."
But my heart doesn’t believe me.
I walk toward the bedroom hallway, the air feeling heavier the closer I get.
The bedroom door is closed.
I knock lightly. "Luka?"
Nothing.
I knock again, firmer this time. "If you’re in there, I just need a quick proof of life, okay? I’ll leave immediately. I will even stopexisting in your general vicinity if you want. I just need to know you’re not dead."
Still nothing.
I reach for the handle and it’s unlocked. I turn the handle and the door swings open, but the bedroom is dark… and empty. Thankfully I didn't want in on something else. My heart would never have recovered.
Then I see it. A warm strip of light coming from beneath the bathroom door.
My pulse spikes.
I cross the room quickly and knock. "Luka?" but there's no response.
I swallow hard, hand hovering over the handle.
"Last warning," I call out. "If you don’t answer, I’m coming in and then you’ll have to live with the fact that you forced me to commit a felony out of concern."
Again, no answer.
I push the door open. And there he is. Laying on the bathroom floor.
Not dead-on-the-floor, thank God, but collapsed, curled on his side against the bathtub with his arm tucked under his head like a makeshift pillow. His face is pale in a way I’ve never seen on him before, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, his breathing too fast and shallow.
"Oh my God."
I’m across the tile before I finish the thought, dropping to my knees beside him.
"Luka. Hey." My voice comes rough, too scared. "Can you hear me?"
His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
I press my palm to his forehead, and my stomach drops. He’s burning up.
"Say something," I demand, firmer now, because I need him awake.
His eyes crack open slowly, glassy and unfocused, taking several seconds to find my face.
And then he finally speaks.
"Bunny Hill," he rasps, like he’s still half asleep in Switzerland. "How did you get in?"
I stare at him. "Don't worry about that now. How long have you been on the floor?"
