TOWARD THE DISTANCE Chapter 11

Cade tried to transfer money to Elena's bank account — just dump cash into it, enough to cover anything she might need while she was out there alone.

The bank called him back within minutes.

"Mr. Harrington, your transfers have all failed."

"What? There's nothing wrong with my accounts —"

"Your accounts are fine, sir. The problem is on the other end. The account you're trying to send money to no longer exists."

"What do you mean it doesn't exist?"

"It was closed. Yesterday."

Cade hung up without saying goodbye.

He sat down on the floor next to Elena's favorite chair — the one by the window where she used to read in the afternoons — and pressed his hands over his face.

She had closed her bank accounts. Turned off her phone. Left nothing behind. Every move she'd made was deliberate, planned, executed with a precision that told him this wasn't impulse. She had been preparing for this for weeks. Maybe longer.

And he hadn't noticed a single thing.

The guilt hit him like a physical blow — sudden and total, knocking the breath out of his chest. He thought about all the small moments he'd missed. The mornings he'd left before she woke up. The evenings he'd come home smelling like Lily and kissed Elena on the forehead like nothing was wrong. The anniversary he'd forgotten. The ring she'd taken off, and the excuse he'd let himself believe.

He had been so busy maintaining the lie that he'd stopped paying attention to the woman he was lying to.

Cade spent the rest of the night combing through Elena's social media — every platform, every account. He knew her username on all of them: Calm Ning. She'd used it since they were teenagers.

On the first platform he checked, their chat history stopped weeks ago. Her account was gone — deleted. A grey silhouette where her avatar used to be.

He searched the others. Same story, again and again. Account not found. User does not exist. Already deleted.

He sat there for hours, scrolling through nothing, searching for something — anything — that would tell him where she was or how she felt or whether any part of her still wanted to be found.

Eventually, he called the platform's customer service line.

"I need to recover a deleted account," he said. "My wife's account. She deleted it before she left, and I need to see the data."

"I'm sorry, sir. Account recovery must be requested by the account holder."

"I'm her husband —"

"I understand, but our policy —"

"I'll sue you."

"You're welcome to do so, sir."

Cade escalated. He used every connection he had — called in favors, made promises, even lowered his voice and asked for help like a man who had run out of other options.

In the end, the platform gave him access. Not because of his threats or his money, but because they confirmed that Elena was genuinely missing, and the situation warranted an exception.

Her profile loaded on his screen. The avatar was a painting she'd done herself — soft colors, a still pond, the kind of quiet image that matched the woman he used to know. The account was full of years of small, careful documentation. Photos of their life together. Paintings she'd finished in the afternoons. The bouquets he'd given her, the garden she'd planted, their wedding flowers pressed flat and photographed.

Cade scrolled through all of it, and something in his chest cracked open — slow and deep, like a fault line giving way.

She had loved this life. She had loved him. And he had destroyed it so carelessly that he hadn't even noticed it was breaking.

The last photo she'd posted was taken six months ago — a shot of the stars from the rooftop swing, dark sky and scattered light. No caption. No hashtag.

The last text entry — posted just last night, long after midnight — was three words:

"This ends here."

Cade stared at those words until the screen blurred.