Part 1The Fake Ambulance Took My Fiancé

I was halfway through a work trip when a message suddenly popped up in the condo owners’ group chat:

“My kids have finals this week. Could the unit above us please keep it down? And for God’s sake, stop playing that ‘Daddy’ game.”

Another neighbor chimed in: “Seriously. ‘Daddy’ this, ‘Daddy’ that, day and night. Are they that desperate for attention?”

But I had been out of town for over a month and a half.

Who was playing games in my apartment?

* * *

I tried to check the CCTV on my security camera, but the connection kept failing.

After several attempts, I called my fiancé, Holden Blackwood, hoping he could swing by and check the setup. No answer.

I tried to rationalize it. The soundproofing in our building, The Heights, was notoriously bad. Maybe the noise was traveling from another unit, and the downstairs neighbor, Carol Perkins, had just misidentified the source.

I quickly messaged the group: “There is no one home in my unit. You should check elsewhere for the source of the noise.”

The group chat fell silent.

I tried to focus on my itinerary, but a low, insidious anxiety had begun to coil in my stomach. Even if Holden had been busy when I called, he should have at least texted me back. He never did.

I scrolled through our message history. The screen was a long ribbon of my vibrant green bubbles—photos of local cuisine, complaints about bizarre clients, and long, detailed inquiries about his day, his meals, his schedule. Sandwiched between my effusive paragraphs were his clipped, blue replies:

“K.”

“Got it.”

“Fine.”

“I know!”

I hesitated for a moment, then sent another text: Are you busy right now? Could you swing by the apartment? I can’t connect to the camera. I’m worried it’s unplugged or broken.

As soon as I hit send, I regretted it.

Holden's research lab at the university was demanding. When I’d told him this current work trip would last nearly three months, he’d packed a duffel bag and moved straight into the campus dorm.

“Tracy,” he’d said, using my first name, "you’re going to be gone. It’s a waste of time and gas to commute back and forth every day.”

The day I left, we’d walked out of the apartment building at the same time. I’d expected him to offer me a ride to the airport. Instead, he simply got into the SUV—the one my parents had bought for me—and peeled out, leaving me standing alone with my luggage.

I hailed a rideshare, trying to soothe the stinging feeling. He’s just a classic academic, a genius with no social skills, I told myself. His mind is only on his thesis. We’re looking at houses. We’re getting married. It’s fine. It’s fine.

But over the past six weeks, he hadn't initiated a single call or text. Everyone said three days of silence was the end of a relationship. How many three-day stretches had we blown past?