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Waking up the next morning, I immediately felt that familiar knot of guilt in my stomach, even before I had rolled out of bed. Gigi's name had been sitting unread in my messages for days, those little blue bubbles I'd opened, half-written replies I never sent.
I had told myself it was valid because Ethan needed me, the investigation was spiraling, and everything felt too big and urgent to stop for normal friend stuff.
But the reality was harsher: I had been a terrible friend, too caught up in my own mess to even check if she was doing okay. I wished she'd understand. I hoped she wouldn't hate me for it. Mostly, I just wanted her to pick up when I called.
Sitting on the edge of my bed in sweatpants and an old hoodie, I pressed my phone to my ear as it rang straight to voicemail for the third time.
Her cheerful outgoing message played, "Hey, it's Gigi, leave a message or don't, but if you don't I'll assume you're dead and start planning your funeral playlist"
