Alexandria Rodriguez didn’t seem to notice the impatience in his tone. Or perhaps she did and simply chose to ignore it.

She continued in that same naive, aggrieved tone. "Callahan, are you looking for Maya? If you ask me, since she chose to leave, you should just let her go. She never really fit into our world anyway. Maybe going back to her old life is for the best..."

"Alexandria!"

Callahan snapped, his voice cold as ice, laced with a harshness she had never heard before.

Silence descended on the other end of the line.

Callahan gripped his phone until his knuckles turned white, every word forced out from between his teeth. "She is my fiancée! The engagement is official, the rings were exchanged, and our families have publicly announced it. It is not for an outsider like you to judge her place. And watch your tone—what do you mean by 'her old life'? What do you mean she doesn’t belong? Don’t forget who the real imposter is here."

Alexandria was clearly stunned. After a few seconds, she let out an incredulous, hurt sob. "Callahan... how could you say that to me? I’m Alexandria, I—"

"That’s enough."

Unwilling to hear another word, Callahan hung up.

He leaned back against the cold wall, staring out at the neon lights of the unfamiliar city. His chest felt hollow, a dull, relentless ache throbbing in his heart.

*Maya, where are you?*

***

A week later, the private investigator finally turned up a lead.

A month before leaving the country, Maya had secretly secured permanent residency in Canada. And just a few days ago, a new Canadian bank account in her name had recorded a transaction at a community hospital in Quebec.

Quebec.

Like a drowning man clutching at a straw, Callahan booked the next flight out that night.

He arrived in the early morning. The old city, tucked away in the French-speaking province, felt quiet and alien in the dark.

He followed the address to the community hospital. It was small, the facilities looking aged and worn.

He explained to the receptionist that he was looking for the medical records of a woman named Maya Cole. The nurse—a middle-aged woman with brown hair and green eyes—politely but firmly refused, citing patient confidentiality.

Callahan wouldn't take no for an answer. He leaned over the counter, his jaw tight, his voice low and urgent as he pushed for a meeting with the hospital administrator. He needed them to understand the gravity of his search.

The nurse remained unyielding.

Callahan didn't leave. He sat at a café on the corner across from the hospital for three days straight, his eyes scanning every person who entered or exited.

He couldn't afford to miss a single chance.

It was late autumn in Quebec, and the chill was biting. Callahan, dressed in only a thin wool coat, sat at an outdoor table, downing black coffee after black coffee to stave off the cold and his mounting anxiety.

Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were sunken, bruised with exhaustion. He looked haggard, completely out of place among the leisurely French atmosphere surrounding him.

On the afternoon of the third day, he finally spotted a nurse of Asian descent walking out the side door, finishing her shift.

Callahan stood up, his movements sharp as he crossed the street to intercept her.

"Excuse me, sorry to bother you," he said, his voice raspy from the cold. He pulled out his phone to show a photo of Maya. "Have you seen this woman recently? A Chinese woman, very thin, about this tall..."

The nurse hesitated, glancing at the photo, then at Callahan’s desperate expression. She spoke softly, her English lightly accented. "There was a Miss Cole. She came in for a follow-up about a week ago."

Callahan’s heart skipped a beat, his voice tight. "A follow-up? Was she sick?"

The nurse lowered her voice. "She... she wasn't doing well. Post-surgical infection after a miscarriage, which led to pelvic inflammatory disease. And she had an old rib fracture that hadn't healed properly. There were bruises on her body, too. They were fading, but you could tell they were there. She came alone. She was very thin, her complexion was terrible—she barely had any color left."

Every word was like a sledgehammer to Callahan’s chest. He raked a hand through his hair, his breathing hitching as the weight of his failure crashed down on him.

Infection. Pelvic inflammatory disease. Fractured ribs. Bruises.

Where was he while she was suffering through all of this alone?

"Then... where is she now?" Callahan’s voice trembled. "Do you know where she’s staying?"

The nurse shook her head. "I don't know. But she did ask about how to get to Montreal, about the train schedule. She might have gone there."

Montreal.

Another lead. Callahan felt a wave of relief, though his hands were still shaking. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. Please, if you remember anything else, call me."

He handed her his business card and, without waiting for a response, turned and walked rapidly toward the curb to flag down a cab for the train station.

Just as he climbed in and directed the driver to the station, his phone rang. It was his assistant back home.

"Mr. Meyer, I have a situation I need to report," the assistant said, his voice somber. "Alexandria Rodriguez just posted a long article on her social media this afternoon."