The building looked harmless enough—just another strip mall space squeezed between a dance studio and a discount tire shop. White walls, frosted windows, a banner that read "Reignite Your Light!" in bubbly teal font.
But the moment we stepped inside, I felt off.
The reception area smelled like cinnamon candles and fake optimism. Posters lined the walls with mantras like "You Are the Architect of Your Destiny" and "Every Scar Is a Lesson."
A woman in her forties sat behind the front desk, typing with long pink nails and a smile too wide to be real. She glanced up when we walked in.
"Welcome to Pathway Praxis!" she chirped. "Are you joining us for tonight's breakthrough circle?"
Andy stepped forward and slid a worn-out membership card from her jacket pocket. "Actually, I used to come here. November cohort."
The woman's smile didn't budge. "Welcome back, love! If you'd like to sign up for our Refocus Retreat, I can—"
"I'm looking for someone," Andy said quickly. "From my group. November last year. Guy in a hoodie, always sat in the back. Said he was passing through town. He sold me his phone."
That cracked the smile a little. Just a flicker.
"I'm sorry," the woman said, tone soft but firm. "We don't share personal information. It's against policy."
"Even if it's for something serious?" Andy asked. "He could be in trouble."
"I understand, but—"
"He could've hurt someone," I said, stepping in. "Or worse."
The woman looked between us. "If you're concerned about someone's safety, I can give you the name of our legal liaison. But I can't hand out details on past participants."
Andy sighed. "Could we at least look at the sign-in sheets? Photos? Anything?"
"I'm afraid not."
We stood there for a beat, frustrated silence thick in the room.
Eventually, Andy gave a tight nod. "Thanks anyway."
The woman went back to typing.
We stepped outside. The air felt cooler now, heavier.
"Well, that was a waste," I muttered.
"No, it wasn't," Andy said, voice low. "She got nervous."
I looked at her. "You saw that too?"
"She knows who I'm talking about. Or at least remembers him."
"But she's not going to tell us."
Andy pulled her hair back into a quick knot. "Nope. So we come back later. When she's not here."
I blinked. "You want to break in?"
"Borrow. Briefly." She glanced back at the frosted window. "We get in, check the files, find his name, and get out. Five minutes."
"This is insane."
She looked at me. "So's a phone that vanishes people when you block them."
Fair enough.
We started walking. The plan was forming, reckless and fast.
Tonight, we'd come back.
And this time, we weren't asking.
****
We waited in the car across the street, lights off, engine idle.
The receptionist finally came out around 8:15 PM, locking the glass front door behind her and adjusting her oversized tote bag on one shoulder. She pulled out her keys—gold and clinking—then tucked them into her coat pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Ready?" Andy asked.
I glanced at her. "You sure you still got it?"
She grinned. "Please. I used to steal lunch money from the vice principal in sixth grade."
I didn't ask.
We crossed the street casually, keeping pace behind the receptionist as she walked toward the corner bus stop. Andy moved like she was walking on air—loose, casual, unassuming. I stayed just a step behind.
At the intersection, the receptionist paused to check her phone. That was Andy's moment.
A soft bump of shoulders. A muttered "Oh, sorry!" A practiced laugh.
And the keys slipped out of the coat pocket like they wanted to be stolen.
The receptionist kept scrolling through her screen, completely unaware.
Andy and I turned the corner and fast-walked back to the Praxis building. She unlocked the door with a smooth click, and we slipped inside.
The silence hit different now.
Without the scent of candles and chirpy background music, the place felt cold and dead. The posters looked ghostly in the dim light, their cheerful slogans warped by the dark.
The computer behind the desk hummed quietly, the screen still on.
Andy slid into the chair, fingers already on the mouse. "Lucky day," she muttered. "No password."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
I leaned over the desk as she clicked through folders until she found one labeled Intake Forms.
Then: November Cohort.
There were maybe a dozen files, each named by date and initials. We opened them one by one—PDFs with scanned intake forms, headshots, addresses, and emergency contacts.
"That's Kara. I remember her," Andy said as we passed a bright-eyed girl with purple braids. "And him—Jake. Always wore the same cologne. Made the whole room smell like regret."
She kept clicking.
Another. Another.
Then—
"This one," she said. "I don't remember this one."
There was no photo. Just a form with tight, neat handwriting. Name: Colby McRobin.
Age: 28.
Address: Something rural, a county we didn't recognize.
Occupation: Freelance.
"No emergency contact," I said. "No phone number either."
Andy stared at it. "That's him."
"You're sure?"
She nodded. "Every other guy, I remember their faces. Voices. This one? I only remember the hoodie. He was like background noise. The quietest person in the room."
"Creepy quiet," I added.
"Yeah. Like he wanted to disappear."
I stared at the screen, my stomach turning.
Colby McRobin.
The name meant nothing. But I could feel the wrongness of it. Like it was a mask someone forgot to take off.
I took a photo of the screen with my phone.
"We have to go," I whispered.
Andy nodded, closing the folder and powering off the screen like we'd never been there.
We locked the door behind us and tossed the keys onto the receptionist's welcome mat with the casual guilt of two kids skipping church.
Back in the car, I looked down at the photo.
That name.
That blank form.
Something told me we'd just found the edge of a much deeper hole.
And we were already falling in.
My phone buzzed just as we were pulling out of the parking lot.
Rose: Where are you?
I stared at the screen for a second, pulse quickening.
Then I typed fast.
Mia: With Andy. Don't wait up.
I paused, then added the lie.
Mia: I'm staying at her place tonight.
There was a long pause, then her reply.
Rose: Have fun ❤️
It stung, just a little. The ease with which I lied. The way she believed it without hesitation. Like I'd never given her a reason not to.
I shoved the thought down.
Andy glanced over at me. "So... what now?"
I stared out the windshield. The streetlights passed in slow flickers.
"We find him," I said. "We go to the address. Colby McRobin, wherever he is."
"And if it's the wrong guy?"
"Then we find the right one next. But this is a start."
We drove through the night, Andy's car humming like it was half-asleep. The highways blurred into black ribbons. I watched the stars tilt and fade through the window as my phone sat cold and silent in my lap.
Neither of us talked much.
It was past 3 a.m. when we finally reached the town.
Tiny. Forgotten.
Gas station. Post office. One blinking stoplight that flickered more red than green. A bar with a neon sign that said "Last Call Every Hour."
We found a cheap motel on the edge of the road—sun-faded curtains, buzzing light outside the office. The man behind the glass didn't even look up when Andy handed him her card.
Room 12 smelled like cigarettes and lemon cleaner. We didn't care. We crashed hard.
By morning, the fog outside had thickened, blanketing the road like something out of a movie. Colby's address was only fifteen minutes from the motel—down a dirt lane, lined with broken mailboxes and wild grass. No neighbors in sight.
The house sat by itself. White. Two stories. Peeling paint. A porch swing that creaked slowly in the breeze.
We stood at the door for a moment.
Andy rang the bell.
A moment later, a woman in her early forties opened it, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes flicked between us—guarded but not unfriendly.
"Yes?"
"Hi," Andy said, all casual charm. "Sorry to drop in. I'm from a motivational class Colby took last November? Just trying to reconnect with some of the folks from that group. Is he around?"
The woman's face changed—just slightly.
Her eyes softened. Her grip on the towel tightened.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "You must be mistaken."
Andy blinked. "I don't think so—Colby McRobin, right? Hoodie? Kinda quiet?"
The woman looked down, then back up.
"Colby was my son," she said. "He passed away last November."
The words hit like a slap. I felt the air shift, thick with something cold.
Andy's mouth opened, then closed. "I—I'm sorry. We didn't know."
The woman nodded, stepping back from the door. "It's alright. Happens a lot. Kids from town come around every few months, thinking they saw him. He had one of those faces."
Faces that disappear.
I swallowed. "Do you mind if I ask... what happened?"
She hesitated. "Car accident. At least, that's what they said. But the police never gave me much. Just said he'd been traveling. That they found his phone... and the wreckage."
Her voice broke a little.
"... and his body."
When we got back to the car, neither of us spoke.
Andy sat behind the wheel, gripping it like she needed something solid.
I stared at the windshield, trying to make sense of what we'd just heard.
"He's dead," Andy said finally. "The guy who sold me the phone. He's dead? He was with us the whole of November."
"Someone killed him; it was no accident," I said quietly.
The wind picked up outside. The trees shook.
The address was real. The name was real. But Colby McRobin?
He was a ghost.
And we were chasing shadows.