The Missing Best Friend

Day one.

Lena dragged her suitcase into the hotel lobby and checked in at the front desk.

She wore a white dress, her hair tied back in a ponytail, chatting with the receptionist with an easy smile.

My eyes suddenly stung.

In the bottom right corner of the screen, near the lobby entrance, a man pushed the door open and walked in.

He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, baseball cap, and face mask.

From his build and the way he moved, I knew it was Tristan.

He didn’t go to the front desk. Instead, he sat in the lobby seating area, picking up a magazine and holding it in front of him.

But his eyes stayed on Lena.

From the moment she checked in, to when she took her key card, to when she stepped into the elevator.

He watched the entire time.

A chill crept down my spine.

“Fast-forward,” I said.

The security supervisor sped up the footage.

That afternoon.

Lena left the hotel to go out.

The footage switched to the camera at the entrance. About two minutes after she walked out, Tristan followed.

He was wearing the same cap and mask, keeping about twenty meters behind her.

That night.

Lena had dinner at the hotel restaurant on the first floor.

Tristan sat in a corner, ordering a cup of coffee.

His seat gave him a clear view of Lena’s table.

The entire time, Lena never noticed him.

Day two.

Lena went out to a church.

Tristan followed.

Lena went to a night market.

Tristan followed.

Lena bought a drink from a street stall, then crouched down to play with a stray cat.

Tristan stood outside a convenience store across the street, pretending to look at his phone.

He was there in every shot and frame.

My hands started to shake.

This wasn’t an affair.

People having an affair didn’t act like this.

He was wearing a mask, keeping his distance, and following her every move.

People in an affair walked side by side, shared meals, and touched each other.

But he didn’t.

From beginning to end, he never said a single word to Lena, and Lena had no idea he was there.

This wasn’t an affair.

It was stalking.

“What about day three?”

I asked, my voice dry.

The security supervisor pulled up the footage from day three.

That morning, Lena left the hotel.

She had a backpack on, a map in hand, and she looked to be in a good mood.

The footage showed her walking out of the hotel and heading east along the street.

Two minutes later.

Tristan came out through the side entrance and went in the same direction.

And then, the footage ended.

The hotel cameras only covered about fifty meters beyond the building.

I couldn’t see everything beyond that.

“Is there any other footage?” I asked.

The supervisor shook his head. “That’s all the hotel has. For street cameras, you’ll need to go through local authorities.”

I stood there in silence for a long moment.

Then I got up, thanked him, and walked out of the surveillance room.

Outside the hotel, I opened the map on my phone.

The last direction Lena took was east.

Following that road would take us past a few streets, a market, and a gas station.

And eventually, the coast.

A stretch of cliffside overlooking the sea.

I stared at the marker on the map, my fingers cold.

She went there.

He followed.

And then she disappeared.

I rented a motorcycle and rode along that road for forty minutes.

At the end of it was an open coastline.

The cliffs were high, with jagged rocks and crashing waves below.

The wind was fierce, strong enough to make it hard to stay on my feet.

This wasn’t a tourist spot.

There were no railings or warning signs, just a narrow dirt path overgrown with weeds leading to the edge of the cliff.

I stood at the edge and looked down.

Below were loose rocks, patches of brush, and a strip of shoreline worn smooth by the tide.

If someone fell from here…

I couldn’t let myself think it through.

I started asking around.

There was a small fishing town nearby, just a handful of scattered homes.

I took Lena’s photo and went door to door.

No one had seen her.

I knocked on a dozen doors, and every time, it was the same—they just shook their heads.

I was about to leave when I noticed a little boy sitting under a tree at the edge of the town.

He was about seven, maybe eight, years old.

He wore a dirty blue T-shirt, barefoot, crouched on the ground playing in the mud.

There was something in his hand.

It was a phone in a pink case, with a cat paw grip stuck to the back.

My mind went blank.

That phone case was the birthday gift I gave Lena.