I lean closer. Hari deleted all her social media channels shortly after the program ended, and she never joined our group message chain. I figured it was because she had better things to do, that we didn’t make the same impact on her that she did on us.
“I connected with her when I moved back to Sydney. She told me she took what happened on the trip hard. First with Tomas and then with Phoebe. She started partying more, taking things she shouldn’t. She got hooked. First on opioids and then it escalated. Heroin.”
Hari never cared what anyone thought of her. She was always carefree and just…happy in a way I always envied. I can’t correlate my memories of her with this news.
“She got better, back on her feet. She told me she’d relapsed a few times, but she’s been clean ever since I’ve reconnected with her, for the last year or so.”
“Wow,” Ellery says, clearly as shocked as I am.
“Kyan, you said she was flaky,” I say. “Is this normal behavior for her?”
Kyan shakes his head. “She’s not great at returning texts. Andthere was one time she stood me up for dinner—but she was really excited about seeing you all again. We’d talked about it a few times. I figured something came up last night, but now…”
“We should check on her,” Declan says.
“I think you’re right,” Kyan agrees.
***
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in Kyan’s car, but this time we aren’t heading into the city center.
“I’ve been to her place a few times,” Kyan said back at his house. “When I would pick her up for dinner or coffee. It’s not in a great part of town.”
He wasn’t lying, I realize, as his Tesla travels silently up dense, narrow streets lined with trash-filled sidewalks and run-down buildings. I spot a few people sleeping rough in the doorways of closed storefronts. We turn onto a quieter road and pull up in front of a black fence, behind which sits a brick apartment complex.
“This is it,” Kyan announces. And then a second later, in response to our unasked questions: “Hari had a difficult time finding a job after everything. Despite how liberal and open-minded Australians claim to be, no one was jumping at the chance to hire a recovering addict. She’s finally got a position as a grocery store cashier.”
The information sits there, all of us remembering the potential Hari had. How she’d planned to get her PhD in sociology after she finished her degree at Hamilton. How she dreamed of becoming an academic, eventually a university professor.
I guess my life wasn’t the only one that deteriorated once the program ended. I suppose it should be a comforting thought, but as I gaze up at the worn building, it feels anything but.
We all get out of the car, and I take a shaky breath as we stand there for a second, preparing ourselves. Declan is next to me, and despite everything, his presence gives me a slight sense of relief.
“Let’s go,” I say, forcing myself to take a step towards the building, and the others follow suit.
The gate opens, unlocked, and Adrien reaches the intercom first, a rusted-looking contraption affixed to front of the building. She finds Hari’s last name—Masterson—and presses it. It rings loudly for several seconds, but there’s no answer. She tries again. No luck. She begins the process of ringing the buttons for the other units until an older female voice that sounds like it’s the product of decades of chain-smoking answers.
“What do ya want?”
“We’re looking for our friend, Hari. Harriet. We’re here to check on her, but she’s not—”
The intercom buzzes as the front door lock unlatches. The woman clearly wasn’t interested in Adrien’s story, but no matter, at least we’re in.
The building’s foyer is musty, decorated with the odd piece of trash and one wall lined with a set of dejected mailboxes. A small hallway leads to the first-floor units, but according to the list of names on the intercom, Hari lives in unit 204, so we take the rickety stairway up until we reach level two.
A doormat sits in front of unit 204 that readsWelcomein loopingcursive font with a picture of a palm tree, and I can’t help but smile. This place may be completely and utterly depressing, but of course Hari would find a way to brighten it.
Ellery steps forward, knocks lightly on the door. “Hari, it’s us.” And then realizing how that sounds, she laughs. “I mean, it’s Ellery and Claire and Kyan and…” She trails off when it’s evident no one is coming towards the door. Then she tries again, rapping her knuckles against the door.
“Hold on,” Declan says, grabbing the doorknob. “Let me try.”
It opens without protest.
I’ve had a sinking feeling in my gut the entire drive over, but now my stomach flips. Something isn’t right here. I can tell.
The others must too. I feel Ellery bristle next to me. Declan looks back at us as if for permission. Kyan nods, and Declan pushes the door further open, taking a step in.
The living room is sparse, but tastefully decorated. A surfboard rests against one corner, light green pillows line a beige couch, and a small potted cactus sits on the white coffee table.
