This Story Might Save Your Life(52)

My breath catches. “You don’t think…”

Either an apartment is about to go up for rent or one has recently been rented. And the most likely of the four units I can see from the front entrance to Chez Moi—Chez Nous—is Joy’s. The same apartment with the silverfish and raccoon infestation and broken dishwasher. My heart pounds in my throat. If Joy is here … I almost don’t want to let myself think it. I don’t care what I need to do to help her fix things. If she’s here, I swear to god I will do whatever it takes to make sure I never, ever lose her again. I approach the staircase, and then all at once I’m at her door.

The smell of pancakes. The clack of plates. Someone is here. Someone is definitely here. Sarah is behind me, a gentle hand on my back as I knock.

Nothing from inside. I angle forward, staring at my Converse sneakers, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps. But it’s quiet now. There’s no doormat. No shoes or packages along the wall, like the apartment across the way. I’m beginning to worry I’ve imagined the smells and sounds when the lock clicks. The door opens a crack.

“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice.

My stomach sinks, then sinks further when the woman’s face comes into view. Round cheeks, concerned hazel eyes. Not Joy.

“I was looking for my friend. I thought she might be…” I’m too disappointed to continue.

“Have you seen this woman around?” Sarah holds out a photo of Joy on her phone.

The woman opens the door wider, squints at the screen. A little girl with sleep-ruffled black curls and pink footie pajamas toddles forward; she hooks an arm around the woman’s leg and sucks her thumb, watching me curiously. The woman shakes her head. “I haven’t. Is she missing?”

I nod, and she offers a commiserative frown. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”

“There was an apartment for rent,” Sarah says before the woman can close the door on us. “Was it this one?” She points to the sparsely decorated space through the crack. A simple gray couch. A spattering of plastic toys across a rug that’s seen better days.

“Just moved in yesterday,” she says. The little girl reaches up with plump, grabby hands, and the woman picks her up. Kisses her forehead. “I hope you find your friend.”

Across the way, the door to the opposite unit opens. A man, roughly my age, wearing padded shorts, a helmet, and a backpack, pushes a road bike onto the landing. We introduce ourselves and show him Joy’s picture.

“Sorry, man.” He lifts the bike over his head. “Wish I could help.”

We follow him down. As he’s riding away, we try the ground-floor units, but my heart’s not in it anymore. I know now that I was wrong, and I’m unsurprised when no one answers.

Sinking onto one of the open-riser stairs, I run a hand down my face, irritated that I let myself hope. Of course Joy isn’t here. I’m a terrible friend. If she was indeed dropping clues, I’ve clearly failed to pick them up.

Sarah sits next to me. “What’s going on in there?”

“I really thought she was trying to tell me something.”

“Maybe she is. But Benny, I think we need to talk about why. Why like this?”

It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself. “I’m sure there has to be a good reason. I keep going over it in my head. All she said that night was that she had something sensitive to tell me, and that she needed to take a break from the podcast. Maybe she was planning to tell me about the divorce, but what if she was trying to tell me something else? We don’t know when the window broke. What if some stranger was already in the house when I got there? What if I could’ve helped and I didn’t even know it because my head was so far up my own ass?”

“Don’t,” Sarah says. “Don’t you dare do that to yourself. I’m talking about the clues. She asked you to come over at a specific time. By sticking a note in your pocket. And then that text about piecing things together for XYZ—why would she do that?”

“Because she was worried Xander would do something to stop her.”

“Right. But you don’t still think that was just to protect the podcast, do you?”

An old diesel BMW passes, blaring “Sweet Adeline” by Elliott Smith through open windows. I look down at my hands.

“Benny, we haven’t talked about why Joy is leaving Xander.” Sarah shifts; clears her throat. “I know the past few months have been turbulent, but has Joy seemed okay to you … otherwise?”

“What do you mean, otherwise?”

“Has she been acting different? More stressed or anxious than usual?”

“Well, yeah. Like you said—it’s been turbulent.”

“Has she been isolating herself?”

“Yes. But—because of the stalker.”

“You always complain about the way Xander micromanages everything. Does he control all the money?”

“He doesn’t have full control. We have accountants and stuff. But enough that it would be tricky to extricate him.” My heart palpitates uncomfortably. “What are you getting at?”

“Does Joy have access to your finances?”

“I assume so. I told you, Luna thinks it may have been Joy who transferred the million dollars.”