The phone rang for the third time and went straight to voicemail.
Miranda stood outside Chloe's apartment, her brow furrowed, her thumb hovering uncertainly over the call log.
The last time she was here, she had just dropped a bomb on her daughter and now, she couldn't even get a hold of her.
She stared at the door, then knocked. Once. Twice. Nothing.
"Chloe," she called out, knocking again, this time louder. "It's me. Open the door."
But silence answered her.
She hesitated, then reached into her purse for the spare key. Chloe had given it to her months ago, back when things were still… normal. Sliding it into the lock, Miranda pushed the door open — and froze.
The air inside was stale, unmoved for days. A coffee mug sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. The hoodie she wore the last time she saw her was draped over the back of the couch. The bed is untouched. No dishes in the sink. It was like walking into a paused life.
