I listened and felt an uncomfortable knot form in my stomach. Not satisfaction, exactly. More like the dread of learning that a disaster had occurred on a road you used to travel every day. Zoe had been reckless with my trust, but I had known her through four years of ordinary mornings and evenings. I didn't enjoy imagining her frightened in a city where she knew almost nobody.
"Is she safe?" I asked.
"As far as I know. I don't think she's hurt. People are talking about money, mostly."
"Then I hope she gets it sorted."
Mike paused. "That's all?"
"I don't know what else you want me to say."
"Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you weren't hearing it from somebody who'd turn it into a joke."
I thanked him for that. Before he hung up, he said he could tell me more if I wanted to know. I asked him not to send screenshots or updates unless there was some direct practical reason I needed the information. He understood, and I went back inside to eat a sandwich that tasted like cardboard. By afternoon I was concentrating on work again, though every so often my mind returned to the phrase money she'd transferred.
A week later, I learned more despite not asking. Mike called while I was cooking dinner and said Zoe's situation had become serious enough that people in the old group were worried. He'd spoken to someone who had heard directly from her. According to that account, Jake had introduced himself as an event promoter with connections to casinos, venues, and touring entertainment companies. He dressed well, knew a surprising number of people, and seemed to have an answer for every question Zoe asked about building a larger career in travel media.
From what later emerged, he had given her the exact sort of attention she'd been craving. He took her to restaurants where staff greeted him by name, though she'd eventually learn that some of those connections were much less impressive than they appeared. He talked about opening a boutique event company and asked her opinion on marketing campaigns. He told her she had a gift for understanding people, that she was wasting her talent in a small Midwestern town, and that he could help her become the woman she was meant to be.
Those phrases sounded painfully familiar. I had encouraged her talent, too, but my encouragement usually involved spreadsheets, editing late into the night, and asking how she planned to pay for a project. Jake's encouragement apparently sounded like a promise that the difficult parts could be skipped if she trusted him. I could imagine how appealing that would have been to her. I could also imagine how easily she might have mistaken his certainty for competence.
When she moved to Vegas, she first stayed near the Strip. She photographed rooftop views, neon signs, and restaurants with elaborate interiors. Her posts described a fresh start, a leap of faith, and refusing to shrink her dreams. People from our old circle congratulated her because they saw a woman choosing happiness. They didn't know she had been exchanging intimate messages with Jake while still sharing my apartment, and most had no reason to suspect it.