I want to make more small talk, but I’m too wired to do anything but jump straight to the point. “Mrs. Eckhart, sorry to be abrupt, but is Chris there?”
“Chris?” she asks in a bewildered tone that makes my heart sink.
Is he really up in his apartment right now ignoring me? Can he possibly be serious about not wanting anything to do with me anymore?
Surely not. We’ve been through too much together. And we promised each other that we’d never let anything get between us again. This is a speed bump, nothing more.
“No, he was here last weekend,” she says uncertainly. “And of course he calls every other day to say hi to his father and me. He didn’t call today, though. Funny thing, actually—he usually would have by now.”
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
“Do you think everything is okay?” she asks, sounding worried.
“Um, yeah. You know what, I remember him telling me he was swamped at work,” I lie. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“Right. It must be something like that,” she says. But she sounds about as convinced as I feel—i.e., not at all. “I’ve sent him a few messages. He hasn’t replied.”
“I’ll track him down and tell him he’s a bad son,” I say in a lighthearted tone.
“Thank you, dear. I appreciate that.”
I say goodbye and look up at Lev, unable to contain my panic anymore. “Something is wrong, Lev. He hasn’t called his mom today. He hasn’t responded to her texts, either. He might ignore me if he’s pissed enough. But he’d never ignore his mother.”
He grabs my wrist. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Around to the back of the building. There’s got to be a back door in.”
“There is, but it’s locked.”
“Good. A locked door can always be opened with the right tool.”
Sure enough, within a minute, he has the back door swinging open for us. “After you,” he says, gesturing me forward.
I rush in without complaint and head to the stairwell, though in the back of my head, I’m wondering when I started getting so cavalier with stuff like breaking and entering. It’s a slippery slope from there to doing what Anton does.
I shove those thoughts aside as we climb up slowly to the fifth floor and I rush over to his apartment.
“Chris!” I call, slamming my fist against the door. “Chris—”
“Just move,” Lev says, calm as ever. He pulls something metal out of his pocket, starts messing with the doorknob, and thirty seconds later, “Voila.” The door swings inward on silent hinges.
“You’re gonna have to teach me how to do that at some point,” I mumble as I squeeze past him into the apartment. “Chris?”
His apartment smells like him. Like pine trees and aftershave.
But there’s no sign of Chris.
I search through the apartment. Bedroom, bathroom, wardrobe. All empty.
“He’s not here.” I sound panicked even to my own ears.
“What’s that?” Lev asks, pointing to Chris’s neatly made bed.
I turn and notice the piece of white paper sitting haphazardly on the wrinkle-free duvet cover. I pick it up and turn it over. The words there are written in a neat, flowing cursive that I don’t recognize.
“It’s a letter…”