Page 114 of Fake for 7 days

I hung up.

What the hell did that mean?

"The number is no longer in service," I said out loud.

"Oh," Don said.

"I wonder if she changed her number?" I pondered. The thought was uncomfortable. Had Isabella changed her number because she didn't want to receive any more calls from me? But no sooner had this thought occurred to me than I dismissed it again. That would have been nonsense. In that case, it would have been enough to simply block my number.

"Maybe she lost her phone or something," Don speculated. In the meantime, we had reached the outskirts of New York. The traffic around us was getting thicker and thicker.

"Hm," I said and sank into deep silence. Outwardly I appeared calm, but inside I was in deep turmoil.

And it wouldn't settle until I had seen Isabella.

What felt like an eternity later, we pulled up in front of the older skyscraper where Isabella lived.

Finally.

In reality, no more than forty-five minutes had passed since the police officer had checked Don's ID. We had made it to Manhattan without hitting any traffic, which was an absolute rarity. But still, it hadn't been fast enough for me.

Now, however, I sat glued to the passenger seat.

"Well, what's the matter? Don't you want to get out?" Don eyed me from the side. He had deliberately stopped in the second lane to avoid wasting unnecessary time looking for a parking spot. Behind us, other drivers honked angrily, but Don didn't bat an eye.

"I do," I said, but still didn't budge. Just moments ago, I could hardly wait to get here, and now... Now I was hesitating.

"Would you rather come back here tomorrow?" Don asked, shifting back into gear.

"No." I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door. What needed to be done, needed to be done. Carefully, I squeezed between the vehicles parked next to us and crossed the sidewalk with determined steps.

It would work out.

It had to work out.

I leaned forward and searched the long list of doorbells for Isabella's name. When I had picked her up for our dinner together a few weeks ago, I had been here before. Her bell was in the left row, roughly in the middle.

My gaze wandered searchingly over the row of names.

"What's wrong?" Suddenly, Don was standing behind me.

"I can't find her name. It was in the left row, in the middle. Isabella Abbott."

Now I went through the entire list again. From top to bottom.

Miller.

Jamison.

Gonzales.

Ayres.

Li.

Kumari.

Edwards.

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