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Nothing.
He wasn’t a birthday person, idiot. He hated birthdays. They were right up there with Christmas and any other family-oriented holiday.
Nor was he the type to use a random code — everything to this man had meaning. So what meaning would he ascribe to his phone — the thing that he used multiple times in a given day? What little daily reminder did he choose to have?
The day he murdered Irene?
Technically also his birthday, but still a giant “Nope.”
I tried one of the dates from Puerto Rico.
Nada. Probably too soon. He wasn’t the type to change things on a whim. It would have to be a more historic date, so to speak.
Two more attempts before it locked me out.
The day we met?
Nope.
Fuck.
I bit my lip, studying the phone. The screen faded to black again as I held it in my hand. Even though I tipped it up slightly, it stayed black. It did, however, show a flash of fingerprints mostly in the top center of the screen. Bringing it up for a closer look, the phone woke itself up. Grumbling, I forced it to black out again and angled it to the side, catching the kitchen light in the reflective surface.
I’d try one last date. If this was wrong, then the universe was telling me to back the fuck off and walk away, to trust him and tell my self-doubt to take a hike. Plus, it was the only attempt I had left.
After I tapped the last number, the lock screen disappeared, revealing the array of app icons he used to organize his life.
I exhaled, casting a glance upward. Someone out there was messing with me. First the dream, now this.
Shaking off my ridiculousness, I tapped on his text messages and scrolled. And scrolled. Past the numerous conversations with his friends, there were messages back and forth with employees, lawyers, and accountants.
At the bottom was the thread for Lorelei.
I scrolled all the way to the beginning, because I was a fucking masochist. He must have deleted their previous conversation, since the thread was entirely one-sided and seemed to start after our return to the mainland, specifically after I’d called her about the damn cat.
Why he didn’t block her was a mystery, but I’m sure there was a reason for it.
Leander, please. Call me back.
Why aren’t you answering?
Annabel is fine, but I need to talk to you.
I get it if you don’t want to talk, but just let me know you’re ok.
Please answer me. You’re scaring me.
You don’t have to work through this alone. Let me help you. I love you and I’ll always be here for you.
The bourbon came up the back of my throat a little bit. I flicked away the messages and moved over to his call log. Dozens and dozens of calls out, but none of them to Lorelei or anyone with an 815 area code. Her name, however, was in red nearly every day, meaning he missed — or avoided — her call.
I tapped on the voicemail icon and waited.
There was only one message from today. I didn’t have to listen to it, since the transcription was right below it.
I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me, why you won’t even let me see you. And why do I have to hear about all of this from your lawyers and Olivia? What happened, Leander? Why did you disappear on me? I love you so much and it’s breaking my heart that you won’t let me be there for you right now. Please, tell me what I can do to help. Iwantto help you. I love you.
Out of curiosity, I checked his deleted voicemails. Sure enough, there were a dozen of them. It was more of the same psychobabble bullshit and teary confessions. At least he was consistent. When he cut someone off, they were all but dead to him. I should know — I was a ghost for months before I somehow managed to get back into his good graces.
