My roommate and I lived together for two years. She was magnetic—someone who made you feel like the only person in the room.
Then, one day, she vanished. No note, no warning. Police got involved immediately, her family searched
desperately, but months passed with no clues. The case eventually went cold, and hope faded.
Five years later, preparing to sell our old house, I cleaned her untouched bedroom. Moving her dresser, I found a small
hole in the wall stuffed with crumpled notes. One read: “If I ever disappear, you need to urgently look for me at Jake’s cabin in the mountains.”
Jake—her boyfriend—had been charming in public but volatile in private. She’d once hinted at his temper,
and I’d brushed it off. I called police, but Jake had long since moved overseas.
A year later, the call came: Jake, living under a false name, was arrested in another state.
His fingerprints matched an old warrant in her case. At the cabin, police found her in a shallow grave.
Five years of unanswered questions ended in the worst way. Jake will spend life in prison.
I’ll spend mine remembering the friend I couldn’t save.
