تسجيل الدخولCaleb comes over Thursday evening.Nothing planned. He texted at five saying he was finishing early, did that work, and I said yes before I thought about whether I actually wanted company. Which tells me something about where I am with him. He arrives with wine and the easy energy of someone who has had a good day and is not bringing anything heavy to my door. I let him in. We settled on the couch. The evening arranges itself the way our evenings do.Sandra's name is not on my tongue but it is somewhere close.Lena's screenshot is on my phone.“Some things are not what they look like Caleb. You know what you did”.We talked for an hour about nothing consequential. Work, the city, something funny that happened at his firm that he tells badly the first time and then retells correctly when I ask clarifying questions."You should have led with the part about the elevator," I say."The elevator is not the point.""The elevator is the funniest part.""The funniest part is what he said to t
Lena's povI don't tell Maya I am looking,that is the first thing. I made a deliberate decision not to mention it because mentioning it means she tells me to stop. I am not going to stop. Not with Sandra's message sitting in the back of my head like a splinter I cannot leave alone.I started Saturday morning with coffee and my laptop on my kitchen table.Caleb Reed. Chicago. Architect.His professional profile comes up first. Clean, minimal, exactly what you would expect from someone in his field. A firm website with his name on the team page. A LinkedIn that tells me his education, his career history, nothing personal.I go deeper.His personal social media is private which I expected. I sent a follow request from an account I use for exactly this kind of quiet investigation. A neutral profile with enough content to look real, few enough followers to look inactive.Then I start looking at what is public.Old posts. Tagged photos from mutual connections. Comment sections that people f
Thursday morning….The message was still there. Didn't delete it, didn't reply to it, I didn't do anything with it except carrying it around like something I picked up without meaning to and cannot figure out where to put down. “Ask Caleb about the Reeds”My alarm went off at seven thirty.The message was the first thing in my head before I fully awakened.I got up then went to shower.Make coffee. Stood in my kitchen staring at my phone like it owes me an explanation.Caleb texted at eight. Morning. Good day today.I typed back “morning” and put the phone face down.I got to the studio by nine.Went to sit in my usual spot and opened my laptop and stared at a brief for forty minutes without reading a single word of it Everything I need right in front of me.I read the first line.(Thought about Sandra) Read it again then thought about the photoMy phone buzzes “Lena” Did you ask him yet.I turned it face down. Forty minutes passed, I didn't reply I read the first line repeatedly. T
Three days after dinner with Derek.Nothing from Sandra. No follow up, no response to my last message, nothing. Just silence the way the first message was silent for three days before the photo arrived.Waiting for someone you do not know to contact you again is a specific kind of discomfort. Not fear exactly.Caleb comes over Wednesday evening.He arrived with groceries, which is something he has started doing, showing up with actual ingredients rather than takeout.We cooked badly together the way we have started doing, his version of cooking badly being considerably better than most people's version of cooking well, the kitchen warm, music on low. We chatted about a difficult client meeting.I told him about a brief that is making me want to reconsider my entire career."Every creative person says that at least once a month," he says."What do you say instead.""I say the client is wrong.""Out loud?""In my head. Very loudly." He hands me something to chop. "Then I fix the brief."
The restaurant is not our usual kind of place.That is the first thing I noticed when I walked in. Derek and I have our spots. Loud corners with good burgers. Places where the music is slightly too high. Spots where the waiters know his order before he sits down. Comfortable and familiar.This place is quiet. Proper tablecloths. Candles that are not decorative, they are the main light source. The kind of restaurant where people speak at a volume that does not carry to the next table.Derek was already there when I arrived, which is suspicious on its own. He stands when he sees me coming, which he never does."You're early," I say, sitting down."Punctuality is a virtue.""You have never been punctual in your life Derek.""New year, new me.""It's October."He picks up the menu. "You look good.""Thank you." I picked up mine. "You look like someone who chose a restaurant he has never taken me to before.""Trying something new.""Since when.""Since always. Can we look at the menu.""We
Sandra.The name sits on my screen and does nothing to explain itself.Lena reads it over my shoulder twice. Then she pulls out the chair next to me and sits down properly like this conversation just became a longer one than she planned for."Okay," she says. "Who is Sandra?""No idea.""You've never heard Caleb mention Sandra.""Never.""Derek?""No."She takes my phone and reads the messages again from the beginning. The first one from last week. The photo. The name."She's been watching you," Lena says."Yes.""She knew which restaurant you went to Friday.""Yes.""She was standing outside on that street while you were inside.""Lena I know.""Maya." She puts the phone down. "This is not a wrong number situation.""Obviously.""This is someone who has a problem with your situation.""Or someone has a problem with Caleb's situation," I say. "She said," Ask him. She thinks he knows who she is."Lena is quiet for a moment. "So either Caleb knows this woman.""Or she wants me to think







