Chapter 2
Zack didn't sign the divorce papers.
He waited. He was biding his time, waiting for Queenie to crack and come running back, for her so-called pride to crumble in the face of reality.
That tiny apartment on Southside? He'd already had someone look into it. Barely 800 square feet, old as dirt, with nothing going for the location.
Zack honestly couldn't picture Queenie, who'd been spoiled by luxury her whole life, trying to make it in a place like that.
A week later, the maid nervously reported, "Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch... I mean, Ms. Goodman, she's moved out."
Zack was eating breakfast, the sound of his fork and knife scraping against the plate sharp in the quiet room. "Where did she move to?"
"She only said she was moving out, didn't leave any details," the maid replied.
Zack waved the maid away and continued his meal, but his movements slowed. The coffee had gone cold. He took a sip and pushed it aside—something was off.
Not the beans. The temperature, the density of the foam, everything was slightly wrong.
He remembered the coffee Queenie used to make. She'd learned just for him, because he'd been so damn picky.
Every morning, Queenie would get up half an hour early, patiently grinding the beans, adjusting the temperature, frothing the milk, and even making a simple heart shape in the foam before placing it gently before him.
He never once thanked her. Sometimes he'd just take a sip and frown. "Too bitter today."
Now, nobody was there to make his coffee anymore.
Zack gulped down the cold coffee*. The bitterness lingered, not just on his tongue, but deep in his chest.
He started having trouble sleeping. The bedroom felt way too big, and the bed felt way too empty. At night, when he rolled over, his hand would instinctively reach for the other side, but all he'd find was cold, empty sheets.
That was when it hit him: Queenie always slept curled up, like a cat that couldn't feel safe.
He used to complain she took up too much space, so she'd scoot even further to the edge, sometimes almost falling off in the middle of the night.
One time, Zack got home at three in the morning, totally wasted. The driver helped him inside.
Queenie had been sleeping on the couch and jolted awake, running over in her bare feet. "I'll make you something," she whispered. "For your stomach."
Zack shoved her away. "Can't you just leave me alone?"
Queenie stumbled a little, said nothing, and still went to the kitchen. Zack never even touched that soup. He just dumped it down the sink.
Now, when Zack got wasted, all he had left was a cold, empty bedroom and a pounding headache in the morning.
A month later, almost against his will, Zack ended up at that apartment on Southside.
He stood downstairs, staring up at the seventh-floor window. The curtains were different now. Gone was the creamy linen Queenie always liked; in its place hung heavy, deep blue fabric.
Zack went upstairs and knocked on the door.
A man Zack didn't recognize opened up, suspicion plain in his eyes. "Who are you looking for?"
"The previous tenant, Queenie Goodman," Zack replied.
"You mean the lady who used to own the place? She sold it to me over a month ago. The paperwork was done in a flash. It seemed like she really needed the money," the guy said.
Zack was stunned. This apartment was the only thing her parents left Queenie, the one she used to proudly call her backup plan before the wedding. He couldn't believe she had sold it.
"Did she say where she was going?" Zack asked.
"Nope. But the day she moved out, I saw her hauling her suitcase toward the subway. She looked so pale that I thought she might be sick," the guy replied.
Zack's heart clenched out of nowhere.
He climbed back into his car and, for the first time in three years, dialed the number he'd never once dialed: Queenie's cell.
The cold mechanical voice repeated three times. "The number you have dialed is not in service."
Zack's grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. He pulled up his contacts and found the number for Queenie's best friend, Vivi Lynn.
It rang for ages before Vivi finally picked up, her voice icy. "Mr. Finch? Rare to hear from you."
"Where's Queenie?" Zack asked.
There was a pause, then Vivi let out a short, cold laugh. "So you only started looking for her now? Too late. Queenie doesn't want to see you, so don't bother asking me.
"By the way, she told me to tell you. Sign the papers. Stop dragging this out."
"Where the hell is she—" Zack demanded, but Vivi hung up before he could finish.
Zack stared at his phone screen. A wave of panic he'd never felt before crawled up his spine, dense and suffocating.
He used every connection he had, desperately searching for any trace: flights, trains, hotels, bank records, anything. But all records stopped two months ago. She had evaporated, like a drop of water into the air.