Chapter 5 - Seventy-Nine Missed Calls
February 1, 2026.
The morning air in Denver was crisp and biting, hovering at a sharp eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. A brilliant winter sun shone down over the snowy peaks of the Rockies, casting long, glittering shadows across the streets of Cherry Creek.
At 8:30 AM sharp, a massive, twenty-six-foot commercial moving truck bearing the logo Apex Moving & Storage lumbered down 2nd Avenue, its diesel engine rumbling loudly against the polished brick storefronts. It pulled up directly in front of the luxury loft building where Claire’s condo was located.
Kyle hopped out of the passenger side of the cab, wearing a beanie pulled low over his ears and a faded band hoodie. He stretched his arms, grinning ear-to-ear, and texted Megan—who was following behind in her Honda Odyssey minivan with the two toddlers screaming in the back—that they had officially arrived at their new kingdom.
Ten minutes later, Kyle marched up to the front security doors, puffing his chest out with the swagger of a man who believed he had just inherited an empire. He swiped the key fob Evelyn had triumphantly handed him the night before—a spare fob Claire had forgotten to return.
The electronic lock clicked. The glass door slid open.
Kyle strode into the marbled lobby, whistling a tune, and punched the elevator button for the fourth floor. He felt like a conqueror. No more struggling to make rent. No more landlords breathing down his neck. Just luxury living, free of charge, courtesy of his spineless sister-in-law.
When the elevator doors dinged open on the fourth floor, Kyle walked down the carpeted hallway with a spring in his step. He found Unit 402, pulled the gleaming brass key from his pocket, and slid it into the deadbolt.
The key turned. But the door didn't budge.
Kyle frowned, jiggling the key. He tried the brass knob. Locked tight.
Suddenly, the door beside him—Unit 403—swung open. A sharp-faced woman in a tailored silk bathrobe stepped out into the hallway, holding a steaming mug of artisanal coffee. She glared at Kyle with undisguised irritation.
"Can I help you?" the neighbor snapped. "Some of us work from home and don't appreciate grown men rattling doorknobs like burglars."
Kyle flashed an easy, charming grin. "Oh, hey! Sorry about that. I'm Kyle—Megan’s husband. We're moving into Unit 402 today! My mother-in-law arranged everything with Claire. Guess the locks are a bit stiff."
The neighbor stared at Kyle as if he had spoken in ancient Aramaic. Her eyebrows knitted together. "Claire? Claire Vance moved out four days ago."
Kyle’s smile faltered, freezing halfway up his cheek. "Moved out? What do you mean, moved out? She's moving out of Denver, maybe. But we're moving in today. Family arrangement."
The neighbor let out a dry, humorless bark of laughter. "Honey, I don't know what kind of family fairy tale you're living in, but a moving truck cleared out Unit 402 last Thursday. And yesterday morning, a team of contractors showed up with architectural blueprints. The new owner is doing a complete gut-renovation of the kitchen and bathrooms. In fact..." She gestured toward the elevator. "...here come the workers right now."
Right on cue, the elevator doors opened, and two burly men in high-visibility vests stepped out, carrying heavy toolboxes, crowbars, and industrial drop cloths. They walked straight past Kyle, ignored him entirely, and jammed a master electronic key card into the lock of Unit 402.
The heavy oak door swung open wide, revealing a living room completely stripped bare of furniture, art, and personal belongings. The quartz island was already draped in protective plastic sheeting.
Kyle’s stomach plunged into a bottomless abyss. His breath caught in his throat. "Wait! Hey! Stop! You can't go in there! That's Claire's place! We're moving in today!"
One of the contractors turned around, chewing on a toothpick, and gave Kyle a deadpan look. "Buddy, I don't know who 'Claire' is. This unit was purchased free and clear last month by Apex Holdings LLC. We got our work order straight from the property management office. Now, if you don't move that oversized guitar case out of our hallway, I'm calling building security."
Kyle staggered backward, his phone slipping from his trembling fingers and clattering against the carpeted floor.
At that exact moment, his phone began to ring. Then vibrate. Then ring again in a frantic, unbroken cacophony.
He bent down, scooped up the device, and looked at the screen.
Incoming Call: Evelyn Vance (Mom)Missed Calls: 78 others.
Kyle’s hands shook so violently he could barely swipe the answer button. "Evelyn?" he croaked, his voice cracking with rising panic.
“KYLE!” Evelyn’s screech echoed so loudly through the speaker that Kyle had to pull the phone away from his ear. “WHERE IS CLAIRE? WHY IS HER PHONE GOING STRAIGHT TO VOICEMAIL? THE POLICE—NO, NOT THE POLICE, THE BANK—SOMEONE JUST CALLED US FROM ATLANTA OR TEXAS OR HELL—SAYING THE CONDO SOLD! SOLD, KYLE! SOLD FOR THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS! WHERE IS SHE?!”
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Kyle stared blankly into the empty, gutted shell of the apartment where Megan was supposed to record her fashion podcasts.
"I... I don't know," Kyle whispered, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead as the sound of the contractors hammering down drywall echoed behind him. "She's gone, Evelyn. She's completely gone."
