Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  I turn off the light. Thrust once more into darkness, I notice the sudden lack of noise around me.

  The creaks and groans of the dumbwaiter no longer exist.

  When I grab the ropes again, I find them motionless.

  The dumbwaiter has stopped.

  I’m trapped. That’s my first thought. Just like I feared. I nudge the walls with my shoulders, certain there’s less room now than there was a few seconds ago.

  But then my phone lights up, filling the dumbwaiter with an ice-blue glow.

  A text from Nick.

  You’re lowered.

  I elbow the wall to my left, realizing it’s not a wall at all.

  It’s a door.

  A cupboard door, to be precise. One that slides upward just like its twin in 12A.

  That I never considered the likelihood the door would be closed shows just how little I’ve thought this whole thing through. By bending my arm and using the flat of my left hand, I manage to raise it just a crack. I then slide my left foot underneath it to keep the door from falling. After contorting my body in ways I’m sure I’ll regret later, I’m able to lift the door completely and slide out of the dumbwaiter.

  In the darkened kitchen of 11A, I take a moment to stretch, my joints popping. I then text Nick back.

  I’m in.

  Two seconds later, the dumbwaiter begins to move. Watching its rise, I again question the wisdom of coming down here. So much so that I’m tempted to hop in and let Nick haul me back to the safety of 12A. I ask myself what I truly expect to find here. The answer, if I’m being completely honest, is nothing. Which means I’m risking a lot to be here. If Leslie should suddenly barge in, there goes my twelve thousand dollars and that reset button I so desperately need to press.

  But unlike me, Nick isn’t wasting any time. The dumbwaiter has already been lifted out of view, leaving me no choice but to close the cupboard door and turn on the flashlight.

  There’s no turning back now. I’m in 11A. Time to start searching.

  I begin in the kitchen, shining the flashlight into every cupboard and drawer, finding the usual assortment of pots, bowls, and utensils. Nothing looks out of place. Nor does anything look like it once belonged to Ingrid.

  The phone brightens in my hand. Another text from Nick.

  On the landing now. All is clear.

  I continue the search, going through the hallway, the living room, and the study, all of which follow the same layout as 12A. There’s even a desk and bookshelf in the study, although they’re as devoid of information as the ones directly above them. The desk is empty. The bookshelf mostly is, too, save for a few John Grisham hardcovers and a phone book–thick biography of Alexander Hamilton.

  It dawns on me that I have no idea why 11A is vacant. Ingrid never got the chance to mention a previous owner dying or a current resident being gone for an extended period of time. I suppose it could be either of those reasons, although none would explain why the place looks so uninhabited. I get the feeling I had when peeking inside right after Leslie told me Ingrid had left. That the place seemed less like an apartment than a facsimile of one. Cold, quiet, tasteful to the point of blandness.

  I move to the other side of the apartment, the one that doesn’t follow the same layout as mine. Where 12A stops at the corner of the Bartholomew, 11A continues down the building’s northern side. Here I find a bathroom, glowing white in the flashlight’s beam, and two small bedrooms across the hall from each other.

  At the end of the hall is the door to the master bedroom. While not as grand as the one on the second level of 12A, it’s still impressive. There’s a king bed, an eighty-inch flat-screen TV, a master bath, and a walk-in closet. That’s where I go first, aiming the flashlight over bare carpet, empty shelves, dozens of wooden hangers holding nothing.

  I go to the bathroom next, finding it equally as empty. The cabinets under the sink are bare. In the closet, towels line the shelves, neatly folded.

  As I head back in the main bedroom, my phone lights up.

  You’ve been in there a while, Nick texts. Everything OK?

  I note the time glowing at the top of the screen. I’ve been down here for fifteen minutes. Far longer than I intended.

  Finishing up, I text, even though what I should be doing is leaving. There’s clearly nothing of Ingrid’s left in this apartment. I haven’t seen a single box or suitcase or even a remnant that she was ever here at all. But I also don’t want to leave without checking every square inch of the place. It took too much effort to get here once. I doubt I’ll be able to do it again.

  I do a quick check under the bed, sweeping the flashlight back and forth across the carpet.

  Nothing.

  I go to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.

  Nothing.

  I then check the one on the right.

  Something.

  A book, resting like a hotel room Bible on the bottom of an otherwise empty drawer.

  A new text arrives from Nick. Someone’s in the elevator. It’s moving.

  I text back. Up?

  Yes.

  I aim the flashlight at the book in the drawer. Heart of a Dreamer. I’d recognize that cover anywhere. When I pick it up, I find a bookmark with a red tassel tucked among its pages.

  I’ve seen this book—and bookmark—before. In a photo Ingrid posted on Instagram. The same post with the caption boasting how she had met Greta Manville.

  This was Ingrid’s copy.

  I’ve finally found something else she left behind.

  I slide the bookmark from its place and see that nothing about it is personalized. It’s as generic as can be. Just an illustration of a cat curled up on a blanket. Ones just like it are sold in every bookstore in America.

  My phone glows three times in quick succession, brightening the room like lightning flashes as I start to flip backward through the book, checking for scraps of paper tucked among the pages or notes in the margins. There’s nothing until I get to the title page, which bears an inscription written in large, looping letters.

  Darling Ingrid,

  Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!

  Best wishes,

  Greta Manville

  My phone lights up again, forcing me to finally check it. I see four missed texts from Nick, each one more frightening that the last.

  Elevator stopped on 11.

  It’s Leslie! Someone’s with her.

  They’re heading to 11A!!

  The last text, sent mere seconds ago, makes my heart rattle.

  HIDE

  I drop the book back into the nightstand drawer and push it shut. Then I rush to the hallway just in time to hear the sound of a key turning a lock, the door opening, and, finally, the voice of Leslie Evelyn filling the apartment.

  “Here we are, sweetie: 11A.”

  28

  Leslie and her guest are roaming 11A, their voices low, conversational. So far, they’ve stayed on the other side of the apartment. The study. The sitting room. Right now they’re in the kitchen, Leslie saying something I can’t quite make out.

  I remain in the master bedroom, where I’ve stuffed myself beneath the bed. I lie on my stomach, the phone shoved under me to block the glow if Nick texts again. I keep my mouth clamped shut, breathing through my nose because it’s quieter that way.

  Outside the bedroom, Leslie’s voice gets louder, clearer. I can now make out what she’s saying, which mean she’s left the kitchen and is getting closer.

  “This is one of the Bartholomew’s nicest units,” she says. “They’re all nice, of course. But this one is extra special.”

  The person with her is a woman, young and chipper. At least, she’s trying to be. I notice a quiver of nervousness in her voice when she says, “It’s such an amazing apartment.”

  “It is,” Leslie agrees. “Which means staying here is also a big responsibility. We need someone who’ll truly watch over the place.”

  Ah, so this is an interview for Ingrid
’s replacement. Leslie wasted no time. It also explains the girl’s nervousness. She’s trying hard to impress.

  “Back to the questions,” Leslie says. “What’s your current employment situation?”

  “I’m an actress,” the girl says. “I’m waiting tables part time until I get my big break.”

  She lets out a nervous chuckle, making light of the idea, as if she doesn’t even believe it. I feel bad for her. I’d feel worse if I wasn’t hiding in fear, watching their shadows glide along the hallway wall. A moment later they’re in the bedroom, Leslie flicking on the overhead light. Like an insect, I shrink farther under the bed.

  “Do you smoke?” Leslie asks.

  “Only if a role requires it.”

  “Drink?”

  “Not really,” the girl replies. “I’m not legal yet.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in a month.”

  They cross the room.

  Approaching the bed.

  Stopping so close that I can see their shoes. Black pumps for Leslie. Scuffed Keds for the girl. I hold my breath, covering my nose and mouth with my hand for good measure, afraid to make the slightest noise. Even so, my heart pounds so loud in my chest that I’m certain they could hear it if they stopped talking long enough to listen. Thankfully, they don’t.

  “What’s your relationship status?” Leslie asks. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “I, um, have a boyfriend.” The girl sounds thrown by the question. “Will that be a problem?”

  “For you, yes,” Leslie says. “There are certain rules that temporary tenants must follow. One of them is no visitors.”

  Leslie walks toward the master bath, her pumps vanishing from my field of vision. The girl in the Keds stays a moment longer before reluctantly following her.

  “Ever?” she says.

  “Ever,” Leslie replies from inside the bathroom, the tile giving her voice a watery echo. “Another rule is no nights spent away from the apartment. So if you’re approved to stay here, I’m afraid you won’t be seeing very much of your boyfriend.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” she says.

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Leslie returns to the foot of the bed, her black pumps mere inches from my face. They’re spotless—so polished that I can see my warped reflection in the gleaming leather.

  “Tell me about your family,” she says. “Any next of kin?”

  “My parents live in Maryland. Same with my younger sister. She wants to be an actress, too.”

  “How lovely for your parents.” Leslie pauses. “That’s all the questions I have. Shall we return to the lobby?”

  “Um, sure,” the girl says. “Did I get the job?”

  “We’ll give you a call in a few days to let you know.”

  They both leave the bedroom, Leslie flicking off the lights on her way out. Soon I hear the front door close and the key click in the lock.

  Even though they’re now gone, I wait before moving.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Three.

  When I do start to move, it’s just enough to slide my phone out from under me and check for a text from Nick.

  It arrives thirty seconds later.

  They’re in the elevator.

  I crawl out from under the bed and move into the hall on tiptoes, still too frightened to make much noise. At the door, I undo the lock and peek outside, making sure they’re really gone. Seeing no one, I lock the door again, close it behind me, and sprint to the staircase.

  Nick is still on the landing, his expression changing from fraught to overjoyed when he sees me running up the first set of steps.

  “That was nerve-racking,” he says.

  “You have no idea.”

  My heart continues to hammer in my chest, making me light-headed. I think the dizziness is from shock that I wasn’t caught and immediately booted from the Bartholomew. Or maybe it’s because of the way Nick is gripping my hand, his palm hot as he quickly pulls me up the steps to the twelfth-floor landing.

  We head straight to his apartment—running, giggling, shushing, both of us riding the high of getting away with something we shouldn’t have been doing. Inside, Nick leans against the door, his chest heaving. “Did we just do that?”

  I’m also out of breath, answering in huffs. “I—think—we did.”

  “Holy shit, we just did that!”

  Nick, his hand still holding mine, pulls me into a giddy embrace. His body is warm. His heart beats as fast as mine. Adrenaline leaps off him like an electrical current, passing straight into me until I’m so dizzy the room spins.

  I look into Nick’s eyes, hoping that will steady me. Instead, I only feel increasingly unmoored. But it’s not a bad sensation. Far from it. Caught in a wave of euphoria, I press myself against him until our faces are inches apart.

  Then I kiss him.

  A quick, impromptu peck that makes me instantly recoil in shame.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Nick stares at me, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Why?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Did you not want to kiss me?”

  “I did. It’s just—I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

  “Try it again and see.”

  I take a breath.

  I lean in.

  I kiss Nick again. Slowly this time. Anxiously. I haven’t kissed anyone but Andrew for a very long time, and a silly, girlish part of me worries I’ve forgotten how. I haven’t, of course. It’s just as swoonily delicious as I remember.

  It helps that Nick’s an amazing kisser. An expert. I willingly lose myself in the sensation of his lips on mine, his heart thundering beneath my palm, his hand on the small of my back.

  The two of us say nothing as we move down the hallway on swaying legs, kissing against one wall before breaking away and reconnecting a few steps later. I follow him up the spiral steps to his bedroom, his white-hot hand brushing mine.

  I pause for a moment at the top of the steps, a meek voice in the back of my brain telling me this is all happening too quickly. I have other things to worry about. Finding Ingrid. Finding a job. Finding some way to gain control of my life.

  But then Nick kisses me again.

  On my lips.

  On my earlobe.

  On the nape of my neck as he starts to undress me.

  When my clothes fall away, all my worries go with them.

  Relieved of them, I let Nick take me by the hand and guide me to his bed.

  NOW

  Dr. Wagner stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I don’t. Mostly because I understand that I am starting to sound crazy.

  I absolutely cannot sound crazy.

  Not to the doctor. Not to the police, when it’s time for the inevitable interrogation. Not to anyone, lest they think I’m the slightest bit unstable and therefore refuse to believe me.

  They have to believe me.

  “You suggested the Bartholomew was haunted,” Dr. Wagner says, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling. “I’ve always heard those rumors. Urban legends and whatnot. But I also heard all of that was ancient history.”

  “History can repeat itself,” I say.

  The doctor’s left eyebrow rises, cresting the frame of his glasses. “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Yes. I met a girl on my first day at the Bartholomew. She later disappeared.”

  I sound calmer now, even though on the inside I’m at full panic. My pulse thrums and my eyelids twitch and more sweat pools inside the brace at my neck.

  But I don’t raise my voice.

  I don’t talk faster.

  If I edge even the tiniest bit toward hysteria, this conversation will be over. I learned that when I talked to the 911 operator.

  “She was there one day, gone the next. It was almost as if she had died.”

  I pause, giving the statement enough time to settle over Dr. W
agner. When it does, he says, “It sounds to me like you think someone at the Bartholomew was murdered.”

  “I do,” I say, before adding the stinger. “Several people.”

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  29

  When I wake, it’s not George I see outside the window but a different gargoyle. His twin. The one that occupies the south-facing corner. I eye him with suspicion, on the verge of asking him what he did with George.

  But then I realize I’m not alone.

  Nick is asleep beside me, his face buried in a pillow, his broad back rising and falling.

  Which explains the different gargoyle.

  And the very different bedroom, which I’m just now noticing.

  The previous night comes roaring back. The mad dash from 11A. Kissing downstairs. Then kissing upstairs. Then doing a lot more upstairs. Things I haven’t done since before Andrew and I moved in together and sex became routine rather than exciting.

  But last night? That was exciting. And so unlike me.

  I sit up to check the clock on the nightstand.

  Ten minutes after seven.

  I spent the entire night here and not in 12A. Yet another Bartholomew rule I’ve broken.

  I slip out of bed naked, shivering in the morning chill and feeling suddenly shy. The old me who went AWOL last night is returning with a vengeance. I gather my clothes quietly, trying not to wake Nick until after I’m dressed.

  No such luck. I’ve barely slipped on my panties when his voice rises from the bed.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Sorry, yeah. I need to go.”

  Nick sits up. “You sure? I was going to make you pancakes.”

  Rather than attempt to put on my bra with Nick watching, I simply toss it with my shoes before pulling on my blouse.

  “Maybe another time.”

  “Hey,” Nick says. “Why the rush?”

  I gesture to the clock. “I didn’t spend the night in 12A. I broke one of Leslie’s rules.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Seriously, don’t sweat it. The rules are just there to make sure apartment sitters realize this is a serious job.”