Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  “With me?” Zeke says. “Nah. We’re not that close. We met at a warehouse rave in Brooklyn a few years ago and only hung out a few times since then.”

  “Have you heard from her today?”

  “No. Is she missing or something?”

  “It’s just really important that I talk to her.”

  Not even Zeke’s slacker voice can hide his growing suspicion. “How do you know Ingrid again?”

  “I’m her neighbor,” I say. “Was her neighbor, I guess.”

  In one of the units is a twin bed with rails on both sides and the mattress bent in partial incline. On top of it are several stacks of folded sheets coated with a thin layer of dust.

  “She moved out of that fancy building already?” Zeke says.

  “How do you know she was living at the Bartholomew?”

  “She told me.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  That would have been the same day Ingrid took the photo in the park. The one Zeke commented on.

  The corridor makes a sudden turn to the left. I follow it, noting the numbers: 8A, 8B. Inside the one for 8C is a dialysis machine on wheels. I know because my mother used one just like it, back when she was near the end. I went with her a few times, even though I hated everything about it. The disinfectant smell of the hospital. The too-white walls. Seeing her attached to a tangle of tubes as her blood ran through them like fruit punch in a Krazy Straw.

  I move past the machine, quickening my pace until I’ve reached the other side of the building. I can tell because there’s another trash chute. A dumpster sits below it, although it’s smaller than the other one and, at the moment, empty. To the left of the dumpster is a black door, unmarked.

  “What did she say?” I ask Zeke.

  “I’m not sure I should tell you anything else,” he says. “I don’t know you.”

  “Listen, Ingrid might be in some kind of trouble. I hope she isn’t. But I won’t know for certain until I talk to her. So please tell me what happened.”

  The corridor here makes another sharp turn. When I round it, I find myself staring at the storage unit for 10A.

  Greta Manville’s apartment.

  The cage is full of cardboard boxes. Each marked not with its contents but its worth.

  Useful.

  Useless.

  Cheap sentiment.

  “She came to see me,” Zeke says. “Not unusual. Lots of people come to see me. I, uh, procure things. Herbal things, if you catch my drift.”

  I do. Color me unsurprised.

  “So Ingrid came to buy weed?”

  Across from Greta’s storage cage is the one for 11A. Unlike all the other storage cages, the only thing inside that chain-link square is a single shoe box. It rests on the concrete floor, its lid slightly askew, as if Ingrid had left it there in a hurry.

  “That’s not what she was looking for,” Zeke says. “She wanted to know where she could buy something I don’t deal with. But I know someone who does and told her I could be the middleman between them. She gave me the cash; I made the exchange with the supplier and brought it back to Ingrid. That was it.”

  Fumbling with the phone in one hand and the key in the other, I unlock the cage.

  “Who was the supplier?”

  Zeke scoffs. “Shit, man. I’m not giving you his name.”

  I step into the cage and move to the box.

  “Then at least tell me what Ingrid bought.”

  I get the answer twice, both of them arriving in unison. One is from Zeke, who blurts the word over the phone. The other is when I lift the shoe box’s lid.

  Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, is a gun.

  19

  The gun sits on my bed, a deep black against the comforter’s cornflower blue. Beside it is the full magazine also found in the shoe box Ingrid left behind. Six bullets, ready to be locked and loaded.

  It took all the courage I could muster just to carry the shoe box from the basement to the elevator. I spent the long ride to the twelfth floor in terror, and when I finally did remove the gun and magazine, I used only my thumb and forefinger, holding both at arm’s length.

  It was the first time I’d ever touched a gun.

  Growing up, the only firearm in our house was a rarely used hunting rifle my father kept locked in a gun cupboard. I’m pretty sure I glimpsed it only once or twice during my childhood, and then only fleetingly.

  But now I can’t stop looking at the weapon whose presence fills the bedroom. Thanks to Google and a soul-deadening number of websites devoted to pistols, I have learned I’m now in possession of a nine-millimeter Glock G43.

  During the rest of my conversation with Zeke, I learned that Ingrid told him she needed a gun. Fast. She gave him two grand in cash. He took it to his unnamed associate and came back with the Glock.

  “It took an hour, tops,” he said. “Ingrid left with the gun. It’s the last time I heard from her.”

  What I still don’t know is why Ingrid, who in high school was probably voted Least Likely to Own a Firearm, felt as though she needed one.

  And why she bequeathed it to me when she left.

  And why she still isn’t responding, even after I’ve sent a half dozen texts, all of which were different versions of WHAT IS GOING ON WHERE ARE YOU WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME A GUN?!?!?!

  All I know is that I need to get it out of the apartment. Although Leslie never mentioned it, I’m sure there’s a rule at the Bartholomew about apartment sitters possessing firearms. The big question is how. It’s not something I can just toss down the trash chute. Nor do I feel comfortable sneaking off to Central Park and tossing it into the lake. And Zeke already balked at my idea of returning it to the man who supplied it.

  “No way,” he said. “That’s not how he operates.”

  But as much as having the gun here puts me on edge, I’m hesitant to get rid of it until I hear back from Ingrid. She left if behind for a reason.

  The fact that Ingrid had it at all brings up a scary prospect. One that completely smashes the idea she left because she was too scared of the Bartholomew’s strange past to stay here. A gun is a weapon. Self-defense. You don’t need one to protect yourself from a building, even if you somehow think it’s haunted. You can’t shoot a ghost. Or a curse, for that matter.

  But you can shoot a person you suspect is trying to do you harm.

  I’m suddenly reminded of all the places she said she’d been. Boston and New York, Seattle and Virginia.

  Maybe Ingrid wasn’t simply restless.

  Maybe she was running.

  And whoever she was running from had tracked her down, forcing her to flee once more.

  My thoughts flash back to last night and those awkward few minutes I spent outside Ingrid’s door. Looking back on it, I wonder if everything I had found unusual—the fake smile, the hand digging into her pocket, the single blink when I tried to make eye contact—was her way of telling me something she couldn’t say aloud.

  That she wasn’t fine.

  That she needed to leave the Bartholomew.

  That saying anything else—even a single word—wouldn’t be in either of our best interests.

  Now Ingrid is gone, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m partly to blame. If I had been more forceful or nosier, then maybe she would have felt able to confide in me about what was going on.

  Maybe I could have helped her.

  Maybe I still can.

  I return the gun and the ammunition to the shoe box the same way I removed them—cautiously. I then cover the box with its lid and carry the whole thing downstairs to the kitchen, where I shove it in the cupboard under the sink. Better there than in the bedroom, where I’m certain it would keep me up all night.

  I check my watch. It’s now almost eleven. Roughly ten hours since I found out Ingrid was gone. My family waited about that long to report Jane missing. It was still too late. One of the cops who came to our house even chastised us for taking so long to contac
t them.

  There’s always a moment when worry turns to fear, he’d said. That’s when you should have called.

  I’m already there. I crossed that threshold between worry and fear as soon as I found the gun. Which is why I grab my phone, take a breath, and dial 911. I’m connected immediately with a dispatcher.

  “I’d like to report a missing person,” I say.

  “What’s the person’s name?”

  The dispatcher speaks in a dispassionate tone. A calmness that’s both soothing and maddening. A little urgency would make me feel better.

  “Ingrid Gallagher.”

  “And how long has Ingrid been missing?”

  “Ten hours.” I stop, correct myself. “Since last night.”

  Emotion at last seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. One I don’t welcome—incredulity.

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  “Yes. She left in the middle of the night. I didn’t hear about it until ten hours ago.”

  “And how old is Ingrid?”

  I say nothing. I don’t know.

  “Is she a minor?” the dispatcher says, prodding.

  “No.”

  “A senior citizen?”

  “No.” I pause again. “She’s in her early twenties.”

  More doubt seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. “You don’t know her exact age?”

  “No,” I say, adding a hasty, “I’m sorry.”

  “So she’s not a relation?”

  “No. We’re …”

  Yet another pause as I think of the appropriate word. I wouldn’t call Ingrid a friend, exactly. Or even an acquaintance.

  “Neighbors,” I say. “We’re neighbors, and she’s not answering her phone or texts.”

  “What was her last known location?”

  Finally, a question that’s easy to answer. “The Bartholomew.”

  “Is that her residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there signs of a struggle?”

  “I’m not sure.” A weak, useless answer. I try to make up for it by adding, “I don’t think so.”

  Now it’s the dispatcher’s turn to pause. When he finally speaks, his voice contains more than doubt and incredulity. There’s also confusion. And pity. And just a touch of annoyance to make it clear he thinks I’m wasting his time.

  “Ma’am, are you sure she hasn’t just gone away for a few days?”

  “I was told she moved out,” I say.

  “That would explain why she’s no longer there.”

  I wince at the dispatcher’s tone. The pity’s gone. So is the confusion. Only annoyance remains.

  “I know it sounds like she just moved out and didn’t tell me,” I say, “but she left me a note telling me to be careful. And she left a gun. Which makes me think she was in trouble somehow.”

  “Did she ever mention feeling threatened?”

  “She told me she was scared,” I say.

  “When was this?” the dispatcher says.

  “Yesterday. And then she left in the middle of the night.”

  “And you’re sure she never said anything else? Maybe on a different occasion?”

  “Not to me, but we only met yesterday.”

  And that’s it. I’ve lost him. Rightly so. Even I can hear how pathetic I sound.

  “Miss, I understand that you’re worried about your neighbor,” the dispatcher says, his voice suddenly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a child. “But I really don’t know how to help you. You’ve given me very little information to go on. You’re not a family member. And, if you’ll pardon me, it sounds like you don’t even really know this woman. All I can do is politely ask that you hang up and free this line for callers with real emergencies.”

  I do. The dispatcher is right. I don’t know Ingrid. But I’m not the sad, paranoid woman I sounded like during the call.

  Something about this situation is very, very wrong. And I won’t know anything more than that until I locate Ingrid. The only thing I do know, made abundantly clear by that dispatcher, is that if I’m going to find Ingrid, I’ll have to do it all on my own.

  20

  Another night, another bad dream.

  My family again. They’re still in Central Park, occupying Bow Bridge, all of them holding hands and smiling up at me.

  This time, though, they’re on fire.

  I’m once more perched on the roof, nestled inside one of George’s open wings. I watch the fire engulf each of them. First my father, then my mother, then Jane. The flames rise to a peak off the tops of their heads. The water below reflects their burning figures, turning three flames into six. When Jane waves to me with a fiery hand, her reflection follows suit.

  “Be careful,” she calls out as smoke pours from her mouth.

  It’s thick smoke. Black and roiling and so strong I can smell it from the Bartholomew’s roof. Below me, I hear the agitated shriek of a fire alarm echoing through the halls.

  I look at George, his beaked face stoic as he stares at my burning parents. “Please don’t push me,” I say.

  His beak doesn’t move when he answers.

  “I won’t.”

  Then he uses a stone wing to nudge me off the roof.

  I wake with a jerk on the crimson sofa in the sitting room, the nightmare clinging to me like sweat. I can still smell the smoke and hear the blare of the fire alarm. It’s as if I’m not awake at all but simply caught in another, similar dream. The smoke tickles my nose and throat. I cough.

  That’s when I understand what’s going on.

  This isn’t a dream.

  It’s really happening.

  Something in the Bartholomew is on fire.

  The smell of smoke drifts into the apartment. Out in the hallway, the fire alarm blares. Contained inside that incessant clanging is another sound—pounding.

  Someone is at the door.

  In between those rattling knocks comes Nick’s voice.

  “Jules?” he shouts. “You in there? We need to get out of here!”

  I fling open the door and see Nick standing there in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops. His hair is mussed. His eyes are fearful.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Fire. Not sure where.”

  I yank my jacket from the coatrack and shove it on, even as Nick starts to pull me out of the apartment. I shut the door behind me because I read that’s what you’re supposed to do in the case of an apartment fire. Something to do with airflow.

  Nick keeps pulling me along, into the hall, where a thin haze of smoke is made more pronounced by the bright strobe of the emergency lights on the wall. I cough twice. Two harsh barks that get lost in the sound of the fire alarm.

  “Is there a fire escape?” I say, shouting so Nick can hear me.

  “No,” Nick shouts back. “Just fire stairs at the back of the building.”

  He pulls me past the elevator and interior staircase to an unmarked door at the far end of the hall. Nick gives the door a push, but it doesn’t open.

  “Fuck,” he says. “I think it’s locked.”

  He pushes the door again before ramming his shoulder into it. The door doesn’t budge.

  “We have to take the main stairs,” he says before pulling me back the way we came.

  Soon we’re again at the elevator and stairwell, which now pumps out smoke like a chimney. The sight is so jarring that I come to a halt, immobile with fear, no matter how much Nick tugs my arm.

  “Jules, we need to keep moving.”

  He gives another shoulder-wrenching yank of my arm, and I feel myself pulled unwillingly toward the stairs. Soon we’re descending them. Nick moves at a quick, steady pace. I’m more frantic, speeding up then slowing down before being pulled along again.

  The smoke is thicker on the eleventh floor—a fog-like, undulating wall. I lift my jacket to cover my nose and mouth. Nick does the same with his T-shirt.

  “Go on ahead,” he says. “I want to make sure no one else is still up here.”

>   I don’t want to go down the rest of the stairs alone. I’m not sure my body will let me. Already I’ve come to another halt. Dread seems to be riding on the smoke, curling around me, oozing into my pores.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say.

  Nick shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. You need to keep going.”

  I grudgingly oblige, stumbling down the steps to the tenth floor. On the landing, I peer down the hall, squinting against the smoke in search of Greta Manville’s apartment. The door is barely visible through the haze. For all I know, she’s already made her way out of the building. But what if she hasn’t? I picture her in the grip of one of her sudden sleeps, oblivious to the smoke and the screaming alarm.

  Just like one of Nick’s tugs, the image pulls me down the hall, toward 10A, where I pound on the door. It opens immediately. Greta stands in the doorway, covered in a tent-like flannel nightgown and the same slippers she wore earlier. She’s tied a bandanna around her head, which hangs over her nose and mouth.

  “I don’t need you to rescue me,” she says.

  Only she kind of does. When she sets off down the hall, it’s at a snail’s pace, rivaling me in hesitation. Although in her case I think it’s less fear than poor health. Her breath gets heavy before we even reach the stairs. When I try to ease her down the first step, her legs sway like windblown palms.

  “That’s one,” I say.

  Which leaves roughly two hundred more steps to go.

  I peer down the stairwell, gripped by fear when I see nothing but smoke curling upward.

  I cough. Greta does, too, the bottom triangle of her bandanna fluttering.

  I grip her hand. We both know we’re not going to make it down those steps. Greta’s too weak. I’m too terrified.

  “The elevator,” I say, hauling her back up that one meager step we managed to descend.

  “You’re not supposed to use an elevator during a fire.”

  I know that. Just like I knew about closing the apartment door.

  “There’s no other choice,” I snap.

  I head to the elevator, dragging Greta in the same way Nick dragged me. I can feel her wrist twisting beneath my fingers, resisting my pull. That doesn’t slow me. Fear propels me forward.