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CHAPTER TWO

Evangeline

Tiredness burns my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Instead, I’m sitting in front of my laptop, trying to crack the password on Michael’s email again.

I’ve gone through every possible variation I can think of. Important dates, favorite books, obscure gaming references. I even tried his tenth grade computer science teacher’s name. Now, after six weeks of trying, I’m running out of ideas.

Access denied.

Again .

Another cold cup of tea joins the collection on my coffee table as I straighten my spine, rolling my head from side to side to ease the ache in my neck. The missing persons forum is already open in another tab, the cursor blinking in the message box where you can leave notes for loved ones. I start to type something simple, like 'I miss you,' but delete it immediately. It feels too real. Too final.

The police have done their part, but the investigation is practically dead in the water now. They say they’ve exhausted all leads, but what does that even mean?

All I have are the crumbs of his life—the tiny moments, the misplaced messages, and the things he left behind.

My fingers are still hovering over the keyboard when a new notification pops up on my phone screen.

Knight: Go to sleep.

I smile at the message, warmth spreading through me despite my exhaustion. Three weeks of late-night conversations, of him being the only person who believes Michael didn't just walk away, and somehow Knight has become my anchor in all this chaos.

Eva: Says the guy who sent me cat memes at 4 A.M. yesterday.

Knight: Those were tactical cat memes. Completely different. Part of my comprehensive strategy to make you smile. Like last week's emergency kitten deployment during your password cracking crisis.

Eva: Is that what we're calling your early morning hobby now?

Knight: Better than your early morning hobby. You're still trying to hack Michael's work email, aren't you?

I freeze, a guilty flush creeping up my neck. He knows me too well now.

Eva: Maybe.

I minimize the password attempt window, but my mind won't let go of the possibility. If I could just get into his email, maybe I'd find something—a threat, a warning, anything to explain his disappearance. It's stupid and reckless, but I can't just sit here doing nothing.

Knight: Eva. We talked about this. You'll get his account locked. Remember the phone incident?

Eva: I know. I just ... I hate feeling useless.

The gentle reminder of last week's near-disaster makes me smile despite myself. He'd talked me through a panic attack when I thought I'd permanently locked Michael's phone.

Knight: You're not useless. You're tired. And making rookie mistakes because of it.

He's right. Of course he's right. The same way he was right about the police not taking Michael's disappearance seriously enough. About the gaps in the official investigation. About me needing to eat something besides tea and anxiety.

It’s like he's become the steady voice in the chaos of my life, reminding me of all the things I’m forgetting. And that scares me more than anything.

Eva: Find anything new?

Knight: Still working through employee files. Cross-referencing badge access times with security protocols. Someone is definitely trying to hide something, but they’re not as clever as they think.

Eva: That sounds thrilling.

Knight: Better than your Netflix queue. How many true crime documentaries have you binged this week?

I glance at my watch history and wince. He’s been monitoring my viewing habits again, but after three weeks, his protective hovering feels more comforting than invasive.

Eva: That's different. Those are research.

Knight: Right. Because ‘Top Ten Serial Killers of the Pacific Northwest’ is totally relevant to your brother's case. Though I did enjoy your 6 A.M. analysis of why the Bundy documentary got the computer forensics all wrong.

Eva: Hey! That was ...

I pause. He’s teasing me out of my dark thoughts again, the way he has every night for weeks. It's become our routine—me spiraling into darkness, him pulling me back with perfectly timed sarcasm and cat pictures.

Eva: Okay, fine. That one might have been a mistake.

Knight: The mistake was watching it alone at 2 A.M. Your neighbors probably thought you were plotting a murder with all the pacing.

Eva: I don't pace.

Even as I type it, I stop mid-step. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I make another round of the living room. I can’t help it. The anxiety tightens in my chest like a vice.

Knight: Sure. And I don't have seventeen cups of cold coffee on my desk.

Eva: Only seventeen? Amateur.

Knight: Can't all be professionals like you. How many tea mugs are you hoarding right now? Still trying to break last Tuesday’s record?

I count the scattered cups around my laptop. At least eight. Maybe more. I don't even remember pouring the last one, but it's there, sitting on the edge of the desk, growing cold.

Eva: That's not relevant to this conversation.

Knight: That many, huh? I’m sending you another cat meme. This is definitely a tactical situation.

An image pops up—a kitten tangled in computer cables with the caption ‘Me, trying to solve problems.’

It’s so perfectly timed that I laugh despite myself. He’s gotten good at that. Knowing when I need distraction. I’ve tried to block out the noise of the world—the police, the news stories about missing people that never seem to end—but Knight's messages have become my lifeline. His steady presence on the other side of the screen keeps me from drowning in the silence.

Eva: I miss him.

Knight: You really need to sleep. Don’t you have work tomorrow?

Eva: I can’t, and no. I took vacation time. I have the next two weeks off.

I stare at the blue glow of my laptop, the only light in my apartment. It casts long shadows across the walls, and I feel like I’m suffocating in the silence. The stillness that’s taken over this place ever since Michael disappeared. It’s like the air itself has changed. I can’t shake the feeling that something else is wrong here—something I’m not seeing.

Eva: I can’t stop thinking that I’m missing something.

Knight: Your brain needs a break. Even computer servers need downtime occasionally.

Eva: Says the insomniac hacker.

Knight: Fair point. I'm still going through those employee files. You can come and keep me company, if you’d like? Might help to look at them on a bigger screen than your laptop. Plus, I have better tea than whatever that stuff you’ve been drinking is.

I blink at the message. This is different.

In three weeks of late-night conversations, Knight has never suggested meeting in person.

Eva: You mean now?

Knight: You’re right. Stupid idea.

I hesitate. A month ago, this would have seemed insane. But Knight isn’t a stranger anymore. Is he? He's proven himself over and over—tracking Michael's gaming activity, finding discrepancies in security logs, talking me through countless late-night panic attacks. He's the one steady thing in my chaotic search for answers.

Eva: No. I’d like that. It beats staring at the ‘password incorrect’ message.

Knight: Bring your laptop. And your questionable taste in documentaries.

Eva: My documentary choices are excellent.

Knight: You watched ‘Killer Clowns of Kansas’ last night.

Eva: That was research!

Knight: For what possible reason?

Eva: Are you stalking my Netflix account?

Knight: Hacker.

Eva: Fair point.

He sends an address. Upper east side. A gated community with the kind of security you'd expect from someone who makes their living in digital secrets. I can almost hear the hum of his computers, picture the setup he's described during our late-night talks.

Eva: Your neighbors won’t mind?

Knight: Don’t have any. No one here cares about your documentary addiction.

Of course he doesn’t have neighbors. A guy like Knight wouldn’t share walls with anyone. The whole situation feels surreal. A tech genius working in isolation. A woman alone in her apartment, drowning in questions. The perfect start to a Hallmark movie … or a horror movie.

I glance around my apartment. The table beside me is littered with cold cups of tea and printed screenshots of Michael’s last known locations. Every surface holds some piece of the puzzle I can’t solve alone. The air feels heavy, thick with everything I’m failing to see.

Eva: You sure about this?

Knight: Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.

I grab my keys and laptop. The smart thing would be to stay home. To keep our relationship safely digital. But nothing about the past nine weeks since Michael disappeared has been smart. And right now, the thought of being alone with all this ... the thought of sitting in front of a screen, surrounded by the cold emptiness of my apartment ...

Eva: Okay. I’m on my way.

Knight: Good choice. See you soon.