Carla Connor has been living in a room devoid of oxygen lately: everything still runs, still talks, still laughs, but a suffocating feeling clings to her.

And just when Lisa Swain thought they were starting to find their rhythm again, Carla vanished without a word, without a trace, leaving only a chilling void.

At first, Lisa tried to reassure herself that Carla needed space, needed quiet, needed to avoid drama.

But it’s Weatherfield, and silence is a sign of a storm. One unanswered call led to two more, then a whole string of messages that only showed as read.

Lisa started running around everywhere: asking neighbors, stopping at cafes, checking every place Carla usually went, her eyes reddening with worry and anger. The more she couldn’t find her, the more panicked Lisa became. The scariest thing wasn’t where Carla went, but the feeling that Carla had been pushed out of her life by an invisible hand. And that hand, frankly, smelled like Becky Swain’s. Becky appeared at Lisa’s most vulnerable moment, the kind where she reaches out when Lisa is drowning, but pulls her down with her other hand.

Becky feigned concern, saying things that were half-compassionate, half-scolding, making Lisa blame herself, then “accidentally” bringing up past events as if to show Lisa that Carla didn’t understand her as well as Becky did. Lisa wasn’t stupid, but when you’re afraid of losing someone you love, your brain will bend logic to believe whatever makes the pain lessen. Becky knew that. She was so clever that she didn’t attack Carla directly, but attacked Lisa’s trust instead. The more panicked Lisa became, the more Becky had an excuse to stay by her side, the more power she had to interfere in every decision, every call, every step in the search.