by Riley Sager
“Leslie told me it was—”
“An insurance policy? Yeah, I was told that, too. But when you add in that, plus all those rules, something about the situation just seems off.”
“Then why haven’t you left?”
“Because I need the money,” Dylan says. “I’ve got six weeks to go until I collect the whole twelve grand. Once I do that, then I’m out of there, even though I have nowhere else to go. It was the same thing with Erica.”
“And Ingrid,” I say. “And me.”
“One of the things Erica did talk about was the Bartholomew and how, well, fucked-up it seems. Have you heard about some of the shit that’s gone down there?”
I give a solemn nod, remembering those dead servants lined up on the sidewalk, Cornelia Swanson and her slaughtered maid, Dr. Thomas Bartholomew leaping from the roof.
“I thought Erica was exaggerating.” Dylan shakes his head and lets out a quick, bitter chuckle. “That she was being overly worried about the place. Now I think she wasn’t worried enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something weird is going on at the Bartholomew,” Dylan says. “I’m sure of it.”
The groups of schoolkids have finally found their way upstairs. They ooze into the space around us, chattering and touching the diorama glass, leaving it riddled with sticky handprints. Dylan pushes away from them, moving to the other side of the room. I join him in front of another diorama.
Cheetahs stalking the tall grass.
More predators.
“Look, will you just tell me what’s going on?” I say.
“A few days after Erica disappeared, I found this.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring, which he drops into my palm. It’s a typical Jostens class ring. Gold and gaudy. Just like the ones all my high school classmates had. I never bothered to get one because even then I thought it was a waste of money. The stone is purple, surrounded by etched letters proclaiming the owner to be a member of Danville High School’s Class of 2014. Engraved on the inside of the band is a name.
Megan Pulaski.
“I found it behind a couch cushion,” Dylan says. “I thought it might have belonged to someone who lived there. Or maybe another apartment sitter. I asked Leslie, who confirmed there was an apartment sitter named Megan Pulaski in 11B. She was there last year. Sounds normal, right?”
“I’m assuming it doesn’t stay that way,” I say.
Dylan nods. “I Googled the name, hoping maybe I could locate her and mail the ring back to her. I found a Megan Pulaski who graduated from a high school in Danville, Pennsylvania, in 2014. She’s been missing since last year.”
I hand the ring back to Dylan, no longer wanting to touch it.
“I tracked down a friend of hers,” Dylan says. “She created a missing poster just like the one I made for Erica and circulated it online. She told me she hasn’t heard from Megan in over a year. The last time they spoke, Megan was living in an apartment building in Manhattan. She never told her the name. She just mentioned it was covered in gargoyles.”
“Sounds like the Bartholomew to me,” I say.
“It gets weirder,” Dylan warns. “A few days ago, I went for a jog in the park. When I got back to the Bartholomew, I saw Ingrid in the lobby. She didn’t seem to be coming or going. She just stood at the mailboxes, watching the door. I got the feeling she was waiting for me.”
“So you were lying when you told me you didn’t really know each other.”
“That’s the thing; I wasn’t. We’d only spoken a few times before that, and one of them was to ask her if she’d heard anything from Erica because I knew they had hung out a few times.”
“What did she say that day in the lobby?”
“She told me she might have learned what happened to Erica,” Dylan says. “She said she couldn’t talk about it right then. She wanted to go somewhere private, where no one else could hear us. I suggested we meet that night.”
“When was this?”
“Three days ago.”
My stomach clenches. That’s the same night Ingrid vanished.
“When and where were you supposed to meet?”
“A little before one. In the basement.”
“The security camera,” I say. “You’re the one who disconnected it.”
Dylan gives me a terse nod. “I thought it was a good idea, seeing how Ingrid was being so secretive. Turns out it didn’t matter because she never showed. I didn’t find out she was gone until you told me the next day.”
Now I know why Dylan had acted so surprised that afternoon. It also explains why he was in such a hurry to get away from me. No one likes to be around a messenger bearing bad news.
“And now I can’t stop thinking that Ingrid’s missing because she knew what happened to Erica,” Dylan says. “When she vanished. How she vanished. It’s too similar to Erica to be a coincidence. It’s almost like someone else learned that Ingrid knew something and silenced her before she could tell me.”
“You think they’re both—”
I don’t want to say aloud the word I’m thinking for fear it’ll make it be true. I did the same after Jane vanished. We all did, my family tiptoeing around her disappearance with euphemisms. She hasn’t come home. We don’t know where she is. It was finally broken by my father’s midnight pronouncement a week later.
Jane is gone.
“Dead?” Dylan says. “That’s exactly what I think.”
My legs wobble as we move to another diorama. The most brutal of the bunch. A dead zebra being swarmed by vultures. A dozen at least, with more swooping in to snatch whatever scraps are left. Close by are a hyena and a pair of jackals, sneaking into the fray to grab their share.
The frenzied violence of the scene churns my stomach. Or maybe it’s Dylan’s suggestion that someone in the Bartholomew is killing young women who agree to watch apartments there.
Megan and Erica and now Ingrid.
I stare at the two vultures closest to the glass. They’re locked in battle—one bird on its back, taloned feet kicking, the other looming close, wings spread wide.
“Let’s say you’re right. You honestly believe there’s a serial killer in the Bartholomew?”
“I know, it sounds crazy,” Dylan says. “But that’s what it seems like to me. All three of them were apartment sitters. Then all three disappeared in pretty much the same way.”
It makes me think of something my father used to say.
One time is an anomaly. Two times is a coincidence. Three times is proof.
But proof of what? That someone at the Bartholomew is preying on apartment sitters? It’s still too preposterous to wrap my head around. Yet so is the coincidence of three young women without families moving out of the building and never contacting their friends again.
“But who could be doing such a thing? And why hasn’t anyone else at the Bartholomew picked up on it?”
“Who says they haven’t?”
“People there would care if they thought someone had killed apartment sitters.”
“They’re rich,” Dylan says. “All of them. And rich people don’t give a damn about the hired help. They’re vultures.”
“And what are we?”
He gives the diorama one last disdainful look. “That zebra.”
“It’s insane to—”
On the other side of the hall, one of the schoolgirls lets out a shriek. Not a scared one. A notice-me shriek, designed to get the attention of a nearby group of boys. Still, the sound is so jolting that it takes me a second to regain my composure.
“It’s insane to think an entire building would turn a blind eye to kidnapping or murder.”
“But you agree that something strange is going on, right?” Dylan says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have listened to me for this long. You wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”
I continue to stare at the diorama, not blinking, until the whole scene becomes wavy, as if life is slowly returning to
those creatures behind the glass. Feathers tremble. Beady eyes move. The zebra takes a single breath.
“I’m here because I found Erica’s phone,” I remind him.
“And have you seen what’s on it?” Dylan asks. “Maybe Erica was in contact with whoever caused her disappearance.”
I remove the phone and hold it up for Dylan to see. “It’s locked. Do you have any idea what Erica’s passcode was?”
“We weren’t exactly at the password-sharing stage of our relationship,” Dylan says. “Do you know of another way to unlock it?”
I turn Erica’s phone over in my hand, thinking. Although I don’t know the first thing about hacking into a cell phone, I might know someone who does. Grabbing my own phone, I scroll through the call history until I find the number I’m looking for. I hit the dial button, and a laid-back voice soon answers.
“This is Zeke.”
“Hi, Zeke. This is Jules. Ingrid’s friend.”
“Hey,” Zeke says. “Have you heard from her yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m wondering if you could help me. Do you know someone who can hack into a phone?”
There’s a cautious pause from Zeke, during which all I can hear are the rowdy schoolkids spilling all around us. Finally, Zeke says, “I do. But it will cost you.”
“How much?”
“One thousand. That includes two hundred fifty for me as a finder’s fee. The rest goes to my associate.”
I go numb. That’s an insane amount of money. Too much for me to afford on my own. Hearing the price almost makes me end the call. My thumb twitches against the screen, ready to hang up on Zeke and not answer if he attempts to call back.
But then I think about Dylan’s so-crazy-it-might-be-true theory that a serial killer is living within the Bartholomew’s walls. I think about how apartment sitters who’ve suddenly vanished—Megan, Erica, Ingrid—might have been his victims.
We could be next, Dylan and me.
I think Ingrid knew that. It’s why she arranged to talk to Dylan. It’s why she left me the gun and the note. She knew that we could also disappear just as suddenly as the others.
To avoid such a fate, we could leave.
Right now.
Flee in the night just like I hope Ingrid did but am starting to believe she didn’t.
Or we could pay a thousand dollars to unlock Erica’s phone and possibly get answers about what happened not just to her but to all of them.
“You still there, Jules?” Zeke says.
“Yeah. Still here.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” I reply, wincing as I say it. “Meet me in an hour.”
I end the call and stare at the animals in the diorama. The vultures and jackals and hyenas. I feel a twinge of pity for them. What a cruel afterlife they have. Dead for decades yet still gnawing, still fighting.
Forever red in tooth and claw.
32
I now have only twenty-seven dollars to my name.
Dylan and I agreed that we should split Zeke’s asking price between us. Five hundred from Dylan, five hundred from me.
With the cash stuffed uneasily in our pockets, Dylan and I now sit at the spot in Central Park where we’re scheduled to meet Zeke in ten minutes. The Ladies Pavilion. A glorified gazebo with a cream-colored railing and gingerbread trim, the place exudes romance, which must confuse passersby who see Dylan and me inside. Sitting on opposite sides of the pavilion with our arms folded and scowls on our faces, we look like two mismatched people in the middle of a very bad blind date.
“How do you know this guy again?” Dylan says.
“I don’t. He’s a friend of Ingrid’s.”
“So you’ve never met him before?”
“We’ve only talked on the phone.”
Dylan frowns. Not entirely unexpected, seeing how he’s agreed to give a substantial chunk of cash to a complete stranger.
“But he knows someone who can into hack into Erica’s phone, right?” he says.
“I hope so,” I say.
Otherwise we’re screwed. Me, in particular. Right now, I have nothing. No cash in my wallet. No usable credit cards. Until I get my first apartment-sitting payment in two days, I’m flat broke. Even thinking about it makes me feel faint.
To counter the panic, I look at the sky outside the pavilion. It’s an overcast afternoon, the clouds heavy and gray. Heather weather no more. Across from me, Dylan stares at a group of kids scampering up nearby Hernshead, a rocky outcropping that juts into the lake. Although his hoodie and angry-bull build should give him a vaguely thuggish look, his eyes betray him. There’s a sadness to them.
“Tell me something about Erica,” I say. “A favorite story or fond memory.”
“Why?”
“Because it reminds you of what you’ve lost and what you’re trying to get back.”
One of the detectives on Jane’s case told me that. She had been two weeks’ gone by that point, and hope was fading.
I told him about the time in seventh grade when a bully named Davey Tucker decided to make my bus ride to school a living hell. Each day as I boarded the bus, he’d thrust his leg into the aisle and trip me as others laughed. This went on for weeks until, one day, I tripped, fell face first in the aisle, and got a bloody nose. Seeing the blood pouring down my face sent Jane into a rage. She leapt over two bus seats, grabbed Davey Tucker by the hair, and slammed his face into the aisle until he, too, was bleeding. From then on, she was my hero.
“Erica told me a story once,” Dylan says, smiling slightly. “About when she was a little girl. There was a mouse in the kitchen, and her aunt set traps everywhere. In the corners. Under the sink. I guess she was hell-bent on killing that mouse. But Erica didn’t want it to die. She thought it was cute. So every night, when her aunt was asleep, she’d sneak into the kitchen and use a stick to set off all the traps. That doesn’t surprise me. I know she was an animal lover.”
“Is an animal lover,” I say. “Don’t use the past tense. Not just yet.”
Dylan’s smile fades. “Jules, what if we never find out what happened to them?”
“We will,” I say, not having the heart to mention the alternative. How you learn to live with a lack of knowledge. How you eventually train yourself not to think about the missing every minute of every day. How the not knowing still gets under your skin and in your blood like an incurable disease.
A lanky man with an unkempt beard appears on the path leading to the pavilion.
Zeke. I recognize him from his Instagram photos.
With him is a short girl with pink hair. She looks young. Barely-in-her-teens young. Her frilly white dress and Hello Kitty purse don’t help matters. Nor does the fact that she never looks up from her phone, even as Zeke leads her into the pavilion.
“Hey,” Zeke says. “I guess you’re Jules.”
I nod. “And this is Dylan.”
Zeke gives Dylan a wary glance. “Hey, man.”
Dylan responds with a brief nod and says, “So can you help us or not?”
“I can’t,” Zeke says. “But that’s why I brought Yumi along.”
The girl steps forward and holds out an open palm. “Cash first.”
Dylan and I give the money to Zeke, my stomach roiling as the cash leaves my hand. Zeke passes it to Yumi, who quickly counts it before giving him his cut. The rest is shoved into the Hello Kitty purse.
“Now the phone,” she says.
I give her Erica’s phone. Yumi studies it the way a jeweler does a diamond and says, “Give me five minutes. Alone, please.”
The rest of us leave the pavilion, making our way to Hernshead. The children who were there earlier are now gone, leaving the whole craggy area to just Zeke, Dylan, and me.
“Hey, is that Ingrid’s phone?” Zeke says.
“The less you know, the better,” I say.
“Fair enough.”
I look over his shoulder to the pavilion, where Yumi sits on the bench I’ve just vacated. He
r fingers fly across the phone’s screen. I hope that means progress is being made.
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard from her?”
“Nah. You?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Zeke says.
I look to Dylan. Although the headshake he gives is tiny, his message is loud and clear. We need to keep this to ourselves.
“Again, you’re better off not knowing,” I say. “But if you hear from her, please tell her to contact me. She has my number. She knows where I live. I just want to know she’s okay.”
Behind Zeke, Yumi emerges from the pavilion. She thrusts Erica’s phone back at me and says, “All done.”
I swipe the screen and see all of Erica’s apps, not to mention her camera, photo gallery, and call log.
“I turned off the lock function,” Yumi says. “If it locks up again for some reason, I reset the passcode. It’s 1234.”
She walks away without another word. Zeke shakes my hand and gives Dylan a strange little salute. “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” he says before hurrying to catch up with Yumi.
I watch them leave with Erica’s unlocked phone in my hand. I hope that whatever’s on it will be worth the high price.
Dylan and I return to the Ladies Pavilion, sharing a bench this time, the two of us crouched over Erica’s phone. Both of us know the answer to what happened to her—and, by default, to Ingrid—could be hidden somewhere inside it.
“Part of me doesn’t want to know if something bad happened to her,” Dylan says as he cradles the phone in his palm. “Maybe it’s better to just assume she ran away and that she’s living this amazing new life somewhere.”
I used to think the same thing about Jane. That she had escaped, trading our sad Pennsylvania town for some far-off locale with blue water, palm trees, and nightly fiestas in a cobblestone square. It was better than the alternative, which was assuming she was murdered within hours of hopping into that black Volkswagen.
Now I’d give anything to know where she is. Grave or tropical villa, I don’t care. All I want now is the truth.