Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  I push through the doors into a gymnasium that’s been turned into a space for two hundred people. An army of temporary tenants. Identical cots have been spread across the gym floor in untidy rows of twenty each.

  I walk among the cots, seeking out the few that are occupied just in case one of them is Ingrid. At the end of the row, a woman sits straight-backed on the edge of her cot. She stares at a nearby set of roll-away bleachers that have been pressed against the wall. Taped to it is an inspirational poster. A field of lavender swaying in the breeze. At the bottom is a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt.

  With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.

  “Every day, before I leave for work, I sit and stare at this poster, hoping that Eleanor is right,” the woman says. “But so far, each new day only brings the same old shit.”

  “It could be worse,” I blurt out before I think better of it. “We could be dead.”

  “Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind seeing that on an inspirational poster.” The woman slaps her thigh and lets out a raucous laugh that fills our side of the gymnasium. “I haven’t seen you before. You new?”

  “Just visiting,” I say.

  “Lucky you.”

  I take that to mean she’s been here awhile. A surprise, seeing how she doesn’t look homeless. Her clothes are clean and well-pressed. Khaki pants, white shirt, blue cardigan. All of them in better condition than what I’m wearing. My sweater has a hole at the cuff that I cover with my left hand as I hold out the phone with my right.

  “I’m looking for someone who might be staying here. This is a recent picture of her.”

  The woman eyes the photo of Ingrid and me with curiosity. “Her face doesn’t ring any bells. And I’ve been here a month. Waiting for assisted housing to free up. ‘Any day now,’ they tell me. Like it’s a UPS package and not a damn place to live.”

  “She would have been here in the past day,” I say. “If she was here at all.”

  “Name?”

  “Her name is Ingrid.”

  “I meant your name,” the woman says.

  “Sorry. I’m Jules.”

  She finally looks up from the photo and, with a gap-toothed smile, says, “Pretty name. I’m Bobbie. Not as pretty, I know. But it’s one of the few things that’s mine.”

  She pats the space next to her, and I join her on the cot. “It’s nice to meet you, Bobbie.”

  “Likewise, Jules.”

  She plucks the phone from my hand to study the photo once more. “She a friend of yours?”

  “More like an acquaintance.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  I sigh. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If she is, I want to help her.”

  Bobbie sizes me up. Polite suspicion. I can’t blame her. She’s probably encountered a lot of people with offers of help. Ones with strings attached. As for me, I suspect she sees a kindred spirit, because she says, “I’ll keep an eye out for her, if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that very much.”

  “Can you send me the picture?”

  “Sure.”

  Bobbie gives me her phone number, and I text her the photo.

  “I’ll save your number,” she says. “So I can call you if I run into her.”

  I want her to do more than just call me. I want her to tell me about her life. About the chain of events that led her here. Because we have something in common, Bobbie and me. We’re just two women trying to get by as best we can.

  “You say you’ve been here a month?” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  “And before that?”

  Bobbie gives me another suspicious once-over. “Are you a social worker or something?”

  “Just interested in your story,” I say. “If you’re interested in telling it.”

  “There’s not much to tell, Jules. Shit happens. You know how it is.”

  I nod. I know exactly how it is.

  “My family was poor, you see. Welfare. Food stamps. All that stuff some folks are always trying to get rid of.” Bobbie huffs with annoyance. “As if we like depending on food stamps. As if we want that goddamn brick of orange cheese they give out. I told myself that when I grew up, I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. And I managed for a while. But then something unexpected happened, and I had to dig myself a little hole of debt to deal with it. Then to fill in that hole, I had to dig another, this one a little bigger. After a while, there were so many holes that I was bound to fall into one and not be able to get out. It’s hard. Life is hard. And too damn expensive.”

  “Have you seen the price of oranges?” I say.

  Bobbie laughs again. “Honey, the last time I had fresh fruit, Obama was still in office.”

  “Well, I hope life gets easier for you very soon,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Bobbie says brightly. “And I hope you find your friend. Doing good deeds—makes this rotten world just a little bit better.”

  24

  When I return to the Bartholomew at three o’clock, Charlie greets me outside, a dark look of concern in his eyes.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” he says. “A young man. He’s been here a while. After an hour, I told him he could wait inside.”

  Charlie opens the door, and my stomach drops.

  There, standing just inside the lobby, is Andrew.

  His unexpected—and unwanted—presence makes me see red. Literally. For a second, my vision turns crimson, just like in that Hitchcock movie my dad made me watch once. Marnie, it was called. She saw flashes of red like I do now as I march through the door, a scowl on my face.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Andrew looks up from his phone. “You haven’t responded to my calls or texts.”

  “So you just decided to show up?” A thought occurs to me, momentarily cutting through my anger. “How did you even know I was here?”

  “I saw your picture in the paper,” Andrew says. “It took me a minute to realize it was you.”

  “Because it’s an awful picture of me.”

  “I always said you’re much prettier in person.”

  Andrew flashes me his seductive grin. The one that made me weak-kneed when we first met. It’s a dazzling smile, and he knows it. I’m sure he used it on the co-ed he was fucking. One flash was probably all it took to lure her into our apartment and onto our couch.

  Seeing the grin now leaves my body humming with rage. That’s something I’ve managed to push to the wayside the past two weeks, too consumed as I was with worry. But now that he’s here, right in front of me, it comes roaring back.

  “What the fuck do you want, Andrew?”

  “To apologize. I truly hate the way we ended things.”

  He takes a step toward me. I take several steps back, putting as much distance between us as possible. Soon I’m at the row of mailboxes and digging out the mail key.

  “The way you ended things,” I say as I open the mailbox and peek inside. It’s empty, of course. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re right. The way I treated you was awful. There’s no excuse for it.”

  I slam the mailbox shut and turn around, seeing that Andrew has followed me. He stands about three feet away. Just out of punching range.

  “You should have said all this two weeks ago,” I tell him. “But you didn’t. You could have apologized then. You could have begged me not to leave. But you didn’t even try.”

  “Would that have changed your mind?” Andrew says.

  “No.” Tears sting my eyes, which pisses me off. The last thing I want is for Andrew to see just how hurt I really am. “But it would have made me feel less stupid for being with you. It wouldn’t have made me feel so—”

  Unloved.

  That’s what I’m about to say but stop myself before the word can escape. I fear it will make me look as pathetic as I often feel.

  “Were there others besides her?” I ask, even though it’s a pointless question. I’m certain there were.
I’m also certain it doesn’t make any difference now.

  “No,” Andrew says.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Honest.”

  Despite his protests, it’s clear he’s lying. His eyes shift ever-so-slightly to the left. It’s his tell.

  “How many?” I say.

  Andrew shrugs, scratches the back of his head.

  “Two or three.”

  Which probably means there were more.

  “I’m sorry about all of them,” Andrew says. “I never meant to hurt you, Jules. I need you to know that. They meant nothing to me. You did. I loved you. Truly. And now I’ve lost you forever.”

  He moves in even closer and attempts to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. Another one of his surefire moves. He did it right before our first kiss.

  I slap his hand away. “You should have thought about that earlier.”

  “You’re right, I should have,” Andrew says. “And you have every reason to be angry and hurt. I just wanted to tell you that I regret everything. And that I’m sorry.”

  He stands in place, as if waiting for something. I think he wants me to forgive him. I don’t plan on doing that anytime soon.

  “Fine,” I say. “You’ve said your apologies. Now you can go.”

  Andrew doesn’t budge.

  “There’s something else,” he says, growing quiet.

  I cross my arms and huff. “What else could there possibly be?”

  “I need—” Andrew looks around the lobby until he’s certain there’s no one else around. “I need money.”

  I stare at him, stunned. When my legs start to buckle with anger, I try to cover it by taking a step backward.

  “You can’t be fucking serious.”

  “It’s for the rent,” he says, his voice a desperate whisper. “You don’t know how expensive that place is.”

  “I actually do,” I shoot back, “seeing how I paid half that rent for a year.”

  “And you lived there for a few days this month, which means you should give me at least a little money to cover that.”

  “What makes you think I have any money to give?”

  “Because you live here.” Andrew spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the grandiose lobby. “I don’t know what racket you’ve got going, Jules, but I’m impressed.”

  Just then, Nick enters the lobby, looking particularly dashing in a fitted gray suit. Even better, he looks rich, which prompts Andrew to eye him with undisguised contempt. Seeing it makes me feel petty. Vindictively so. Which is why I rush to Nick and say, “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you!”

  I pull him into a hug, whispering desperately into his ear, “Please go along with this.”

  Then I kiss him. More than just a quick peck on the lips. It’s a kiss that lingers—long enough for me to feel the jealousy radiating from Andrew’s side of the lobby.

  “Who’s this?” he says.

  Nick, thankfully, continues the charade. Casually throwing an arm over my shoulder, he says, “I’m Nick. Are you a friend of Jules’s?”

  “This is Andrew,” I say.

  Nick steps forward to shake Andrew’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Andrew. I’d love to stay and chat, but Jules and I have an important thing to get to.”

  “Yes,” I add. “Very important. I suggest you run along as well.”

  Andrew hesitates a moment, his gaze switching between Nick and me. His expression is a mixture of insult and injury. I’d like to be the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy seeing him hurt. I’m not.

  “The door’s right there,” Nick says, pointing the way out. “In case you’re confused.”

  “Bye, Andrew.” I give him the weakest of waves. “Have a nice life.”

  With one last regretful look, Andrew slips out the door and, hopefully, out of my life. Once he’s gone, I pull away from Nick, humiliation burning my cheeks.

  “I am so sorry about that. I didn’t know what else to do. I needed him to leave and couldn’t think of a better way to make that happen.”

  “I think it worked,” Nick says while absently touching his lips. They’re probably still warm from our kiss. Mine certainly are. “I’m guessing Andrew is an ex-boyfriend?”

  We make our way to the elevator, cramming ourselves inside. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Nick, I’m exposed once again to his cologne. That woodsy, citrusy scent.

  “He is,” I say as we begin our ascent. “Unfortunately.”

  “It ended badly?”

  “That would be an understatement.” In the confines of the elevator, I realize how bitter I sound. I wouldn’t blame Nick for wanting to stay far away from me after this. No one likes bitter. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually this—”

  “Hurt?” Nick says.

  “Vindictive.”

  The elevator reaches the top floor. Nick moves the grate aside, allowing me to exit first. As we walk down the hall, he says, “I’m glad I ran into you. And not just because of the way you greeted me down in the lobby.”

  “Really?” I say, blushing anew.

  “I wanted to know if you’d heard back from Ingrid,” Nick says.

  “Not a peep.”

  “That’s disappointing. I was hoping you had.”

  I could tell Nick about the gun. Or the note Ingrid left that I try not to think about because thinking about it is too frightening.

  BE CAREFUL

  Instead, I don’t mention them, for the same reasons I didn’t tell Chloe. I don’t want Nick to think I’m being overly worried, even paranoid.

  “I know she’s not in the homeless shelter I just returned from visiting,” I say.

  “That was some smart thinking to look for her there, though.”

  “I can’t take credit. It was Greta Manville’s idea.”

  Nick’s brows lift in surprise. “Greta? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you are becoming friends.”

  “I think she just wants to help,” I say.

  We reach the end of the hallway, pausing in the wide space between the doors to our respective apartments.

  “I’d like to help, too,” Nick says.

  “But I thought you didn’t know Ingrid.”

  “I didn’t. Not very well. But I’m glad she has someone looking out for her.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it,” I say.

  “Which gives me all the more reason to help,” Nick replies. “Seriously, if you need anything—anything at all—let me know. Especially if Andrew comes back.”

  He gives me a wink and heads to his apartment. I do the same, pausing in the foyer as soon as the door is closed behind me. I feel slightly dizzy, and not just because of Nick. The past twenty-four hours have been so strange it borders on the surreal. Ingrid going missing. The fire. Having lunch with Greta Manville. It’s so far from my normal existence that it feels like something Greta herself might have written.

  Chloe was right. It is indeed a strange, alternate universe I’ve stumbled into.

  I just hope it’s not also something else she told me: that it’s all probably too good to be true.

  25

  I spend the next two hours following Greta’s other suggestion and calling the information desks of every hospital in Manhattan. None of them are aware of an Ingrid Gallagher or a Jane Doe matching her description being admitted within the past twenty-four hours.

  I’m about to start in on hospitals in the outer boroughs when there’s another knock on my door. Charlie this time, standing in the hall with the largest flower arrangement I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so big that Charlie himself is practically invisible. All I see of him is his cap peeking above the blooms.

  “Charlie, what will your wife think?”

  “Cut it out,” Charlie says, blushing slightly. “They’re not from me. I’m just the deliveryman.”

  I gesture for him to set down the arrangement on the coffee table. As he does, I count at least three dozen blooms. Roses and lilies and snapdrag
ons. Tucked among them is a card.

  Thank you for saving my beloved Rufus! You’re an absolute angel!—Marianne

  “I heard you were quite the hero last night,” Charlie says.

  “I was just being a good neighbor,” I say. “Speaking of which, how’s your daughter? One of the other doormen told me there was some sort of emergency.”

  “It was much ado about nothing. She’s fine now. But it’s nice of you to ask.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Still in college?”

  “She plans to go,” Charlie says quietly. “Hasn’t worked out quite yet.”

  “I’m sure it will.” I take a sniff of the flowers. They smell heavenly. “She’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

  Charlie drifts toward the door, seemingly unsure about whether to leave or not. At first, I think he’s waiting for another tip I can’t give. But then he says, “I heard you were asking about that other apartment sitter. The one who left.”

  “Ingrid Gallagher. I’m trying to locate her.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “I haven’t heard from her since she left,” I say. “And I just want to know she’s okay. Did you ever talk to her?”

  “Not really,” Charlie says. “I’ve had more interaction with you in the past five minutes than with her the entire time she was here.”

  “Leslie told me you were the doorman on duty the night she left but that you never actually saw her leave.”

  “I didn’t. I had to step away from the door to deal with the security camera in the basement. There’s a bank of security monitors just off the lobby. It’s always a good idea to have another set of eyes watching the place.”

  “Is the footage saved?”

  “It’s not,” Charlie says, knowing exactly where my thoughts have headed. “Which is why it was necessary for me to check the monitor in the basement.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “It was disconnected. A wire in the back had come loose. The camera was still on, but all I saw on the monitor was a blank screen.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “About five minutes. It was an easy fix.”