Chapter 1I gave my coworker eight grand for her wedding. She gave me back a cheap stuffed cat.
Everyone at work thought I was an idiot. After that, we stopped talking.
I used that cat as a butt cushion for three years.
Last week my dog went crazy and ripped it open.
I was gonna throw it out, but I felt something hard inside.
Pulled it out—a piece of paper with an address and some numbers on it.
The second I figured out what those numbers meant, I freaked out and called 911...
...
Three years ago, my coworker Cassidy got married.
I gave her eight thousand dollars.
The whole office lost their minds.
"Eight grand? Are you guys like sisters or something?"
"She's not even family."
I didn't say anything.
Two years before that, my mom needed surgery.
I was twelve hundred short. I called everyone I knew—nobody picked up.
Cassidy picked up.
She was making like five grand a month back then.
Didn't ask any questions, just sent me ten thousand.
I said I'd write her an IOU.
She said "You write me an IOU and I'll kick your ass."
Took me three months to pay her back.
So yeah, eight grand at her wedding felt right.
The wedding was at some hotel outside the city. Pretty nice setup.
First time meeting Cassidy's husband—his name was Drew.
Good-looking guy, decent job.
The kind everyone calls "perfect husband material."
I went over to say hi. Cassidy grabbed my hand and squeezed it super hard.
"Wow, Cass, your hand's all sweaty. You nervous?"
"Yeah. A little."
Then Drew came over.
He put his arm around her and smiled at me.
"You must be the friend Cassidy's always talking about. Thanks for coming."
Cassidy let go of my hand.
That whole thing felt off. Drew seemed nice—TOO nice.
Nice in a way that made me uncomfortable, but I couldn't tell you why.
One month later I got a package. No return address.
Opened it—some cheap knockoff stuffed cat.
Gray and white, crappy stitching, lumpy stuffing inside.
This was her thank-you gift?
I texted her: "Did you send me the wrong thing?"
Nothing.
Called her. Phone was off.
Called again. Still off.
Next day at work, everyone was talking about it.
"Eight grand for a dollar-store stuffed animal. Cassidy's got some nerve."
"I told you not to give that much."
"Sucker."
I didn't explain. Didn't argue.
Cassidy's phone stayed off. My texts just sat there on read.
A week later I tossed the cat on my desk chair.
Well. It was actually pretty comfy to sit on.
Then Cassidy quit her job.
HR said her husband came in to do the paperwork. Said she wasn't feeling well and needed to stay home.
I sent her one last text: "What's going on?"
Never heard back.
Three years.
That stuffed cat got flat as a pancake. The white parts turned yellow.
I moved once. Took it with me.
Two nights ago my dog went nuts and dragged it off my chair.
By the time I got there, he'd already ripped a huge hole in it.
Stuffing everywhere.
I was yelling at the dog and picking up the mess when I felt something hard inside the cotton.
A piece of paper folded up a million times, wrapped in plastic wrap, stuffed way inside.
I unwrapped it and unfolded it.
Cassidy's handwriting. I'd know it anywhere.
There was an address. And a string of numbers.
I'd never been to that address.
I stared at the numbers for like ten seconds.
My hands started shaking.
Those numbers—it was the amount and date from the IOU I wrote Cassidy when my mom was in the hospital.
12000, 0803.
But the note said: 120000803.
This wasn't an amount and a date.
This was her asking for help.
Chapter 2
I called 911.
Someone picked up.
I said I think someone's being held against their will.
They asked for proof.
I said I found a note hidden in a stuffed animal three years ago. There's an address on it.
Two seconds of silence.
"You sure this isn't a prank?"
"I'm sure."
I gave them the address.
Willowbrook Lane, Building 23, Unit 1904.
They took it down and said they'd send someone to check it out.
Then they said "A three-year-old note... you should give us more if you can."
Hung up. Sat there staring at the paper.
Cassidy wrapped it in plastic on purpose.
She didn't want the ink to smudge.
She wanted me to find it.
But I made her wait three years.
Next day around noon, they called me back.
Said someone went by and knocked. No answer.
Neighbors said a couple lived there—husband comes and goes, wife almost never leaves.
"What do you mean almost never leaves?"
"They said they see her on the balcony sometimes hanging laundry, but nobody's ever seen her leave the building."
"She hasn't left in three years?"
"We can't confirm that. That's just what the neighbors said."
I asked if they could open a case.
They said nobody's filed a report, and there's no proof anyone's being forced to do anything.
They said if she needs help, she can call herself.
They said the note's from three years ago. Things might've changed.
I hung up.
I'd deleted Cassidy from my contacts forever ago, but I found another name—Bridget.
Bridget used to work with Cassidy.
I called her.
"You're looking for Cassidy?"
"Do you have any way to reach her?"
"No. After she got married she cut everyone off."
"Everyone?"
"Yep. First month she popped into the group chat a couple times. After that, nothing. People tried messaging her—she either didn't answer or just said 'I'm fine.' Then she stopped completely."
"You didn't think that was weird?"
"I mean yeah, but some husbands are controlling. I figured maybe she married rich and didn't want to deal with us anymore."
I told her about the cat and the note.
Bridget went quiet.
"...Are you serious?"
"I'm holding the note right now."
"So she's been... locked up?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Wait. I just remembered something."
Bridget said at the wedding she went to the bathroom. Cassidy was there.
Cassidy pulled her aside and shoved a folded piece of paper in her hand.
Bridget thought it was some wedding game thing, so she stuck it in her pocket.
Later she changed clothes and lost track of it.
"Can you find it?"
"Yeah, I can. Those pants—I bought them just for the wedding. Never wore them again, never washed them. Should be stuffed at the bottom of my closet somewhere."
"Find it now."
Hung up. Opened my maps. Looked up Willowbrook Lane, Building 23.
Way outside the city. Forty minutes from my place.
I grabbed the note, the cat, my phone, and left.
Chapter 3
Got to Willowbrook Lane around 2 p.m.
Small place. Six buildings.
Keycard entry but the gate wasn't shut all the way—I squeezed through.
Building 23, Unit 1904. Nineteenth floor.
Took the elevator up. Stood outside the door.
Knocked three times.
Nothing.
Knocked again, harder.
Still nothing.
I pressed my ear to the door—dead quiet.
Went back downstairs. Stood by the entrance.
Some lady walked by with groceries. I stopped her.
"Excuse me, is 1904 where the Lancasters live?"
She looked me up and down.
"You looking for them? Guy's out during the day. Woman doesn't leave the apartment."
"What do you mean doesn't leave?"
"I've been here four years. Never seen her downstairs. Sometimes I see her on the balcony, but never in the complex."
"She doesn't go shopping?"
"Nope. The guy does it all. Hauls everything upstairs himself."
"Anyone else live there?"
"Just the two of them."
"What's the husband like?"
"Nice guy. Always smiling. Gave us fruit baskets one year."
I thanked her and sat down on a bench where I could see Building 23.
Waited.
Around 4:40 a black car pulled in.
Guy got out, grabbed two bags from the trunk.
I recognized him.
Drew.
Three years later he looked the same. Clean-cut, put-together.
He walked into Building 23.
I stood up and looked up at the nineteenth floor.
Fourth window from the left—light came on.
Then the curtain moved.
Someone was looking down.
But just for a second. Then it snapped shut.
I went back to my car. Didn't leave.
Sat there till 6:30. Drew never came out.
Bridget texted: "Found it! It was in the pocket!"
She sent a pic.
Tiny folded note. Same handwriting.
Cassidy's.
The note said:
"If I stop talking to you guys Something happened to me"
I stopped breathing.
Cassidy knew something was gonna happen the day she got married.
She was asking for help that day.
I texted Bridget back: "Don't lose that. Keep it safe."
Then I opened my contacts.
Not 911 this time.
Cassidy's mom.
Cassidy gave me her mom's number years ago—said if I couldn't reach her, call her mom.
That was four years ago.
No idea if it still worked.
I called.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hello?"
Woman's voice. Middle-aged.
"Hi, I'm a friend of Cassidy's. We used to work together."
Pause.
"Cassidy's fine. Don't worry."
"I want to see her."
"That's not necessary. She's not seeing people."
"Ma'am—"
"Don't call again. She's fine."
Hung up.
I called again.
No answer.
Third time, she declined it.
Nineteenth floor, curtains shut tight.
Cassidy at her wedding, hand soaked in sweat.
And a mom who won't let anyone see her daughter.
I sat in my car and put the two notes side by side on my phone.
Cassidy didn't disappear.
She's still up there on the nineteenth floor.
And I'm gonna get her out.
