She filed a police report and contacted her bank, but neither step came with a promise that the funds would return. That was something I understood well enough from my own work around fraud prevention systems. A report is a record of what happened, not a guarantee that a stranger's money can be recovered. The timeline and the nature of the transfers would matter. I hoped she'd keep copies of everything and find legitimate advice, but I had no desire to become the person sorting her documents for her.
Around the same time, her employment situation became worse. She'd left the marketing agency on poor terms, giving little notice because she'd believed opportunities in Vegas would replace the income quickly. The event business that was supposed to make the move worthwhile now seemed not to exist in the way she'd been promised. She tried applying for local marketing jobs, then for hospitality work, then for temporary shifts she hadn't imagined needing. Without enough savings, every rejected application made the next decision more urgent.
Her new apartment was smaller and more expensive than she expected. She'd signed the lease believing she'd soon be sharing the costs with Jake or earning steady money from his venture. Once he disappeared, the rent became an obligation she couldn't meet alone. Her blog no longer brought in much, partly because sponsored campaigns required preparation and reliable deadlines she could no longer manage. The photographs from Vegas kept appearing on her profile, but new ones became less frequent.
Mike said some friends thought she should return home immediately. Others believed she needed to stay and pursue the police report because leaving might make it harder to recover the money. I didn't have an opinion worth offering. I knew only that she was far away, the man she'd chosen was gone, and she was finding out how much harder it was to live on a vision than on a plan. I wished she had listened to someone competent before transferring her savings. That didn't make me the person she should now ask to replace them.
The first message came from an unfamiliar number on a Sunday afternoon. I was assembling a shelf for my office when my phone buzzed beside the drill.
It said, "Alex, it's Zoe. I need to talk. I made a huge mistake." For several seconds I simply looked at the screen. I'd spent so much time imagining what it might feel like if she regretted leaving, and now the words had arrived without giving me any satisfaction at all.
I set the phone down and kept assembling the shelf. I considered replying that I hoped she was safe but didn't want contact. Then I pictured the conversation that would follow, the questions, explanations, and requests I already suspected were coming. I had told her when she left that I would not continue our relationship, and she had understood. I decided not to reopen that conversation merely because she had sent the first message.
Another text arrived that evening. "Please. I know you don't owe me anything. I just need five minutes." By morning there were two missed calls and a voice message.