Chapter 3

At half past midnight, I arrived at the apartment I had rented.

It was small, with one bedroom and a living room. The refrigerator was empty.

I opened the cardboard box and pulled out my reporter's notebook and the voice recorder I hadn't touched in three months.

At nine tomorrow morning, I was meeting my former Editor-in-Chief, Joan Lane.

Three months ago, I had been the one to contact her.

Back then, Joan asked me, "Evelyn, are you sure you want to come back?"

"I'm sure," I replied.

"And the Hill family agreed?"

I had been silent for a long time. "That's my decision."

The recorder was old, and the screen flickered when I turned it on. Three months ago, I had tossed it into my bag and somehow activated the recording function by accident.

I only meant to check whether it still worked, but my finger brushed the playback button.

A burst of static filled the room. Then came the cold, impersonal voice of a hospital announcement.

"Family members of Cardiology emergency patients, please report to the ER waiting area immediately."

My hand froze in midair.

Rapid footsteps sounded through the recording, followed by the automated message for an unanswered call.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Seven calls in total.

Then came my own voice from three months ago, so strained it barely sounded like me. "Nurse, please give me another ten minutes. "My mom... can't they wait a little longer?"

I hit pause.

The apartment fell silent again.

Cars passed outside from time to time, their headlights briefly sweeping across the wall.

The recorder screen still showed the date from three months ago.

I stared at it for a long time but didn't press play again.

I thought, 'Some things only need to happen once. There's no reason to live through them again in the middle of the night.'

*****

The next morning, I arrived at the newsroom at 8:40.

Joan was already there, ten minutes ahead of schedule.

I hadn't seen her in eight years. Her hair was shorter now, and she wore black-framed glasses. She skipped the small talk and tossed a file onto the desk.

"You have ten minutes. Read it," she said.

I sat down and opened the file.

It covered an elderly woman who lived alone. She had worked in a textile factory when she was young and had recently gone viral after posting a video of herself cooking.

Ten minutes later, Joan stopped the timer.

"Where do you start the interview?" she asked.

"Loneliness," I replied.

She looked at me.

I paused, then corrected myself. "No. I'd start by asking why she still cooks four dishes and a soup for herself every day."

Joan raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"If I ask about loneliness directly, she'll become defensive. I'd start with her habits: shopping, preparing ingredients, plating the food. Someone who still puts that much care into eating alone either has strong standards for how she lives, or she's waiting for someone.

"Once she mentions that person herself, then I can go deeper."

Joan gave no reaction. She simply pushed another form across the table. "Two-week probation.

"You'll follow stories, write interview outlines, and do one on-camera interview. If you can't handle it, you're out."

"Okay," I replied.

She looked up at me. "You're not asking about the salary?"

"It was in the email."

"The hours?"

"Also in the email."

"There's a lot of overtime. Things come up without warning," Joan said.

I smiled slightly. "I used to be a reporter."

Joan leaned back in her chair, studying my face. "I know. I'm only making sure you haven't forgotten."

My phone vibrated inside my bag. William's name appeared on the screen. I declined the call.

Less than 30 seconds later, he called again.

Joan glanced at the phone but said nothing.

I declined it again.

When it rang a third time, I switched it to silent.

By the time the meeting ended at 11, I had seven missed calls.

The number made my fingertips go cold.

William's messages appeared immediately afterward.

[Didn't Dad only have two medications this morning?]

[Why are there three in the blue pill box?]

[The family physician isn't answering. Reply when you see this.]

I opened the digital copy of the Household Care Binder I had sent him the night before, took a screenshot of the relevant page, and sent it back.

[Page six.]