Petra would always come striding to the door, flinging it open to welcome her with a hug. It was almost like she knew Clara was there the second she stepped onto the doormat. But two weeks ago, things were different.
For the first time in forever, Clara knocked on Petra’s door. She didn’t know why she did it, considering the keys were in her pocket, but she did it anyway. She knocked and waited, then knocked some more. There wasn't a sound to be heard in the apartment on the other side. When she finally mustered up the courage to unlock the door and let herself in, she was greeted with even more deafening silence. She suddenly wished she had never come at all. What was she even there for? If Petra really ran off to start a new life without telling anyone like the police assured her, why would she bother leaving anything behind? Despite her humble circumstances, Petra was famous for her voice. She’d performed at more venues in the city than Clara could count. Clara figured she’d been saving up for something, especially since her money clearly hadn't been going into home decor. Petra’s place was still half-furnished. The two had always made the best of it anyway, sitting on the couch and watching old action movies until nightfall. If it wasn’t for the ornate closet in Petra’s room, Clara would’ve assumed her friend had no sense of interior design to speak of. The closet was a behemoth of a thing, taking up more space than Petra’s tiny writing desk. Before she knew what she was doing, Clara had breezed past the entranceway and was standing right in front of it. If she had to rank Petra’s secrets, this closet would come in close second to her relationship with her parents. Her friend refused to explain why she’d bought it; she rotated through four outfits on the regular and was never one to hoard clothing. As convinced as Clara was that the closet was empty, Petra would never let her near it.
Standing in Petra’s bedroom, Clara couldn’t help but feel a bit angry. Why did she have to be the one left behind? She knew Petra wasn’t the type to run away for no reason, but what subtle hint did she miss? Her hands gripped the closet’s doors. Maybe this was her way of getting back at Petra for leaving. Maybe she’d find a clue to where she was in this garish old hunk of furniture. She pulled the doors open and immediately stumbled backward, reeling at the smell that hit her. It was rotten, and she felt tears well in her eyes as she struggled to keep from heaving up her breakfast. Staring back at her from inside the closet were two bodies, wrapped in layers upon layers of plastic film. Clara couldn't make out their faces in her panicked haze, but the clothing was all she needed to see to connect the dots. It appeared that Petra had left something behind after all.