Page 64 of Giovanni
The buzzer echoes into the stillness, and I wait, holding my breath. Seconds stretch out, each one feeling longer than the last. Finally, there’s a crackle from the intercom, but it’s not Kacie’s voice that greets me—it’s silence, followed by a faint background noise I can’t quite place.
“Kacie?” I call into the intercom, my voice laced with concern. “It’s me, Giovanni. Are you there?”
There’s a pause, then a shuffle of movement, but still no response. My heart races, dread settling in my gut. Something doesn’t feel right. Without waiting for an answer, I press the buzzer again, hoping for some sign, any acknowledgment.
Minutes pass, and the silence from the intercom becomes increasingly unsettling. I debate my next move, considering whether to call a neighbor or the building manager. Just as I’m about to dial, the door to the building clicks open.
Stepping inside, I sprint to Kacie’s apartment. The hallways are quiet, the usual sounds of life in the building eerily absent. Reaching her door, I knock firmly, calling her name again.
There’s a moment of silence before I hear a faint sound from inside–a muffled movement, perhaps a voice. My worry heightens. I knock again, louder this time.
“Kacie, it’s Giovanni! Please, if you can hear me, open the door!”
The door finally opens, but it’s not Kacie who greets me. Instead, I’m met by a stranger with a worried look, probably because of my erratic behavior. I step back, run a hand through my hair to release some of my nerves and start again with a calmer voice.
“Is Kacie here? I’m her boyfriend, and I really need to see her.”
My mind races, trying to understand the reason for her silence, her absence, and it becomes painfully clear when she pushes open the door to a pool of dried blood on the floor.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I panic and rush past her to run in and out of each room of her small apartment, looking for her. My eyes momentarily pause on the stuffed shark she named Jaws nestled against her bed pillows. She’s nowhere to be found, and all those horrible scenarios that played in a loop in my mind are coming to life.
“Where is she?”
She wrings her hands together, her eyes falling to the floor before returning to mine.
“They rushed Kacie to the hospital.”
A sick feeling overtakes me.
“What do you mean? Why? What’s happened? Did someone break in? Hurt her? Was it someone connected to that guy Friday?”
The words tumble out in a rush, my fear mounting.
I can barely keep my eyes off the lingering blood on the floor between us, noticing the shattered cup and spilled coffee staining the tiles.
“I don’t think so. She hit her head. I happened to be walking by with my dog when I heard a loud bang from her apartment. I kept calling her name, and when she didn’t answer, I called the manager. He let us in, and that’s when we found her.”
I lunge at her, trying to decide if I should hug her or not for insisting on investigating.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Who knows how long Kacie would have stayed there if she hadn’t gotten the manager? Probably a long time with how much I worried and paced at my place when I could have been here helping her.
Fuck.
She steps weary of my anxious and erratic demeanor.
“We called 911, they were pretty quick. Everyone just left.”
She motions to the door as if I passed them somehow, but I didn’t.
“I think with who she is and what she does, a police car escorted the ambulance while they were taking our statements and ensuring it wasn’t a crime.”
A tiny ripple of relief enters my brain, only to be eclipsed as to why this happens.
“Did the first responders say what happened? How did she hit her head? Was it her blood pressure? Did she pass out? She’s been trying to get that down. Been making all sorts of lifestyle changes and . . .”
