Phase Two begins on a Thursday morning.
Sophie arrives at my penthouse armed with nothing but enthusiasm and a pastry bag from Marlene's. Kevin follows behind her with his laptop and a small duffel bag of equipment that he refuses to explain.
Sophie calls it "The Penthouse Raid" with the kind of dramatic flair she applies to everything. Kevin calls it "Systematic Physical Search of Primary Residence" with the clinical precision that is his trademark. Marlene has packed us a basket of sandwiches and pastries and a thermos of tea large enough to fuel a small army. When I try to thank her, she waves her hand and says, "You'll forget to eat. You always forget to eat when you're focused. Take the basket."
I don't know how she knows I forget to eat when I'm focused. The old Vivian must have done the same thing. The thought is strange and comforting and unsettling all at once—evidence that some parts of me survived the amnesia even if I can't access them.
Sophie's reaction to seeing the penthouse for the first time is exactly what I expect. Which is to say, she stops in the middle of the living room and spins in a slow circle with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.
"THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE?" Her voice echoes off the marble floors and the high ceilings and comes back to her smaller and more amazed. "This is INSANE. This is the most insane thing I've ever seen. You have a VIEW of EVERYTHING. I can see my apartment from here—I think. Maybe. Everything looks tiny and insignificant from up here."
Kevin arrives a few minutes later, having taken a separate elevator because he wants to "test the building's security protocols"—which I decide not to question. He looks around the penthouse with quiet assessment, his eyes moving from room to room, cataloging and measuring and planning.
"The square footage is significant," he observes. "This will take several days to search thoroughly, even with three people working systematically."
"Several DAYS?" Sophie stops spinning. "It's an apartment. How big can it be?"
"Three floors. Approximately twelve thousand square feet. Not including the rooftop terrace or the private elevator lobby or the service corridors that connect to the building's maintenance systems."
Sophie's mouth drops open again. "Twelve THOUSAND. I live in five hundred. With a roommate. And a cat that hates me. And a kitchen that's also my living room that's also my bedroom."
Kevin is already opening his laptop. "I've created a floor plan based on public records and Lucas's descriptions. We'll divide each floor into zones and search systematically while documenting everything we find. No room twice. No drawer overlooked."
I watch them prepare—Sophie bouncing with barely contained energy, Kevin calm and methodical—and feel a strange fondness for these two people who have appointed themselves the search party for my forgotten life. They're so different. So completely opposite in every way. And yet they work together like they've been doing this for years.
Maybe they have. Maybe the old Vivian brought them together. Maybe this partnership is one of the few good things she created.
"Before we start," I say, "there's something I should show you."
I lead them to my closet—the enormous walk-in closet full of funeral clothes. Sophie's reaction is immediate and dramatic and exactly what I hoped for.
"OH MY GOD." She pushes through the racks with her hands outstretched, touching everything. "It's like a rainbow died and only the sad colors survived. Black and gray and white and—is that beige? One single beige coat like a tiny rebellion against the monotony?"
"Keep looking."
She keeps looking, pushing past the identical black blazers and the white blouses and the gray everything. And then she finds them at the very back, behind a row of black heels.
The unicorn pajamas.
She pulls them out slowly. Reverently. Like she's holding a sacred artifact that might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her eyes fill with tears. I'm starting to think this is just her natural state whenever anything emotionally significant happens.
"You kept them," she whispers. "I gave these to you three years ago for your birthday, and you said 'Thank you, Sophie' in that voice you used when you hated something but were too polite to say so. I thought you threw them away. Or donated them. Or had Lucas dispose of them quietly. But you KEPT them."
"You gave them to me for emergency cuddles. I found the sticky note."
Sophie presses the pajamas to her face. Her voice comes out muffled and thick. "They still smell like you. The old you. The one who pretended she didn't need anyone but secretly kept my ridiculous gift buried in her closet like a treasure she was afraid to acknowledge."
Kevin appears in the doorway with his laptop balanced on one arm. "I've mapped the first floor and established a search grid. We should begin with Zone A, which includes the main living area, kitchen, and dining room."
Sophie wipes her eyes with the pajamas. She carefully folds them and places them on a shelf—not buried or hidden, but visible and accessible. Like she's giving me permission to keep them in the light.
"Right. Search. Notebook. Focus." She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "Let's do this."
We start in the living room.
Kevin's system is impressive in its thoroughness. He has divided the penthouse into zones based on the floor plan. Each zone has a checklist of every drawer and cabinet and shelf. We work methodically while Sophie searches with chaotic energy—opening everything, touching everything, exclaiming over everything she finds. Kevin follows behind her and records each discovery in his spreadsheet with calm precision.
"Zone A, Section 3, Drawer 2: Restaurant menus organized alphabetically. Approximately forty-seven menus. Mostly high-end establishments with average entrée prices exceeding five hundred thousand rupiah."
"Who keeps forty-seven menus?" Sophie asks.
"Someone who orders a lot of takeout," I say.
"Or someone who likes to be prepared for every possible dining scenario and delegates the actual ordering to her assistant." Kevin closes the drawer and checks it off his list. "Nothing red. Nothing notebook-shaped. Moving to Section 4."
We search for hours. Through the living room and the dining room and the kitchen. Every cabinet and drawer we can find. Sophie discovers a collection of vintage teacups I apparently never use. Kevin finds a folder of insurance documents organized by date and category and cross-referenced with corresponding policies. I find a drawer full of charging cables for devices I don't recognize and probably never will.
No red notebook.
We move to the second floor. We search the bedrooms and bathrooms and the study where Lucas works when he's here. Sophie is starting to flag, her initial energy fading into something quieter and more tired. Kevin remains steady, checking items off his list, documenting everything.
And then Sophie tries to connect to the penthouse Wi-Fi.
"I just want to check something," she says, pulling out her phone. "Kevin sent me a photo of what the notebook MIGHT look like based on Vivian's description, and I want to compare it to—"
She taps her screen.
The lights flicker.
A soft beep echoes through the penthouse. Then another. And then a voice—calm and robotic and completely devoid of mercy—fills the air.
"SECURITY BREACH DETECTED. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT. LOCKDOWN INITIATED."
The lights go red. Actual red. Emergency lighting that I didn't know existed flares to life and bathes everything in an ominous crimson glow. A siren begins to wail—not loud enough to damage eardrums, but loud enough to make conversation impossible.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Sophie screams over the alarm.
"I JUST TRIED TO CONNECT TO THE WI-FI."
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"
"I WANTED TO SEE THE NOTEBOOK PHOTO."
Kevin is already on his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "She triggered the security system. It thinks she's an intruder and is initiating lockdown protocols. I'm trying to override."
The siren continues. The red lights pulse. Sophie has her hands over her ears, her face a mask of panic. I stand in the middle of my own home and watch it treat my best friend like a criminal.
And then Lucas arrives.
I don't hear him come in—the siren is too loud—but suddenly he's just there in the doorway of the study, tablet in hand. He taps the screen once. Twice.
The siren stops.
The lights return to normal.
The robotic voice says, "SECURITY OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. LOCKDOWN DISENGAGED. WELCOME, MR. GREY."
Silence. Beautiful, blessed silence.
Lucas looks at Sophie, who is still crouched with her hands over her ears and her face pale. He looks at Kevin, frozen mid-type with his fingers hovering above his keyboard. He looks at me, standing in the middle of the chaos.
And then he looks at what Sophie is wearing.
Somewhere during the search, she wandered into the spa room and emerged wearing a plush white bathrobe over her clothes—the kind intended for guests, the kind made of Egyptian cotton and probably costing more than her monthly rent. She has accessorized with a towel wrapped around her head like a turban.
"I see you've made friends," Lucas says flatly.
I look at Sophie—bathrobe, towel turban, expression of pure guilt. Then at Kevin—still frozen, still clutching his laptop, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then back at Lucas.
"They're helping me find a notebook," I explain.
Lucas blinks. "A notebook."
"A red one."
His left ear twitches. "And the bathrobe?"
"I got cold," Sophie says weakly. "And the spa room was right there, and it looked so soft. I'm sorry. I'll take it off."
"Please don't. Not in front of me."
Kevin finally finds his voice. "I'm sorry about the security system. Sophie just wanted to see the notebook reference photo, and I didn't think connecting to Wi-Fi would trigger anything."
Lucas's expression doesn't change. But his ears—his beautiful, tell-tale ears—are turning pink. Not from embarrassment. From something else. Something that might be the effort of not laughing.
"The security system is calibrated to recognize authorized devices," he says. "Your laptop is authorized, Mr. Chen. Sophie's phone is not. The system interpreted her connection attempt as a potential breach and responded according to its programming."
"You authorized Kevin's laptop?"
"You mentioned he was helping. I took the liberty of adding his device to the approved list."
I stare at him. Lucas Grey, my impossibly efficient assistant, authorized Kevin's laptop to access my penthouse Wi-Fi without being asked. Without mentioning it. Simply because I said Kevin was helping.
"Thank you," I say.
His ears go from pink to crimson. "It was practical. He needed access to perform his search functions effectively."
Sophie slowly unwinds the towel from her head. "So we're not going to jail?"
"No one is going to jail."
"And I can keep searching?"
Lucas looks at her—at the bathrobe and the chaos she has caused in under four hours—and then at me.
"Would you like assistance? I know this penthouse better than anyone. Including the places you might have hidden something important. Including the locations that don't appear on any floor plan."
Sophie's face lights up. "You want to HELP us?"
"I want to be efficient. Three people searching randomly is inefficient. Four people searching systematically, with access to complete floor plans and knowledge of hidden compartments, is statistically more likely to succeed."
Kevin nods. "He's right. An additional searcher with specialized knowledge increases our coverage and probability of success."
Lucas looks at me and waits. His ears are still pink. His expression is still careful. But underneath all that control, I can see something else. He wants to help. Not because it's his job. Not because I'm paying him. But because it matters to me.
"Okay," I say. "Welcome to Operation Red Notebook."
Sophie cheers. Kevin creates a new column in his spreadsheet. Lucas doesn't smile, but his ears stay pink for the rest of the afternoon.
And somewhere in the penthouse, the red notebook is waiting.
We just have to find it.