The door swings open from the force of my third knock.
I hesitate.
Something feels off. Was he robbed? Is he okay?
The air is cold. Stale. The lights are dim. The apartment is…bare. Like no one really lives here. Like it’s a stage set for someone else’s life.
And then I hear it…coughing.
From behind a closed door down the hall.
“Nathan?” I say again, knocking.
More coughing. Raspy. Like he’s been drinking or drowning or both.
I twist the handle. The door creaks open, and I step inside. And then I stop breathing.
It’s not a bedroom. It’s a war zone.
Walls covered in newspaper clippings, maps, scribbled notes, and red string. Dozens of photos. Pins stuck into timelines. And at the center of it all…
A picture of a little girl.
Taped right above a Post-it note that reads: “Find Ivy.”
My jaw drops, and I gasp.
I know that face.
The world tilts.
News segments. Grocery store bulletin boards. Social media feeds flooded for weeks. Candlelight vigils in the rain.
Find Ivy.
My eyes snap to Nathan. Oh, my God.
That’s why he looked familiar. He’s not just some guarded, intense guy from down the hall. He’s her father. My stomach lurches.
Slumped against the wall, bottle of whiskey half-empty, is Nathan.
I rush over. “Nathan! Are you okay?”
His eyes open, dazed.
He sees me.
And something in him snaps. “What are youdoinghere?” he yells, staggering to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”
“I—I was worried, your door was open, you were passed out?—”
“GET OUT.”
“Nathan, please, just talk to?—”
“GET. THE HELL. OUT.”
His voice was the kind of tone that saysyou were never supposed to get this close.
