Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  I give her a quick nod.

  “That means you’re a realist.”

  “What about you?” I say.

  “I see both at once and decide which is more important to focus on,” Greta says. “Which I suppose makes me pragmatic. But today, I choose to focus on the flowers. Which is the real reason I stopped by. I wanted to give you this.”

  She digs through her tote bag, eventually removing a first-edition hardcover of Heart of a Dreamer.

  “It’s signed,” Greta says as she hands it to me. “Just as you requested when you first attacked me in the lobby.”

  “I didn’t attack,” I say, feigning annoyance when in fact I’m touched beyond words.

  That feeling—of friendship, of gratitude—lasts only a moment. Because when I open the book and see what Greta wrote on the title page, my blood turns cold.

  “You don’t like it?” Greta says.

  I stare at the inscription, rereading every word. I want to be sure I’m not mistaken.

  I’m not.

  “I love it,” I say, a bit too loudly, hoping the sound drowns out the voice of doubt that’s now whispering in my ear.

  It doesn’t.

  “Then why do you look like you’re about to be hit with one of my sudden sleeps?”

  Because that’s how I feel. Like I’m perched on the edge of a great chasm, waiting for the slightest breeze to shove me screaming into it.

  “I feel bad, that’s all,” I say. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

  “It was no trouble at all,” Greta says. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to.”

  “But you were right to be annoyed with me when we first met. You must get bothered all the time to sign copies. Especially from the building’s apartment sitters.”

  “You’re wrong there. I haven’t signed a copy for any other person at the Bartholomew. You’re special, Jules. This is my way of showing you that.”

  I try to act flattered, clutching the book to my chest and pretending to be as thrilled as I truly would have been if Greta had done this a day or so ago. In truth, I want this book as far away from me as possible.

  “I’m honored,” I say. “Truly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Greta continues to give me a concerned look. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “To be honest, I’m not feeling well.” Since faking enthusiasm didn’t work, I might as well try an excuse that’s slightly closer to the truth. “I think a cold is coming on. It always happens when the seasons start to change. I thought the tea would help, but I think what I really need is to lay down for a bit.”

  If Greta sees through my attempt to get her out of the apartment, she doesn’t show it. She simply downs the rest of her tea, hoists the tote bag onto her shoulder, and shuffles out of the kitchen. At the door, she says, “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  I force a smile. “Not unless I check on you first.”

  “Ah, so it’s now a contest,” Greta says. “I accept the challenge.”

  With that, she slips out the door, giving me a little wave on her way to the elevator. As soon as she’s gone, I close the door and hurry down the hall to the bookshelf in the study. There, I grab the copy of Heart of a Dreamer I found my first day here and flip to the title page.

  Seeing it creates a strange expansion in my chest. My heart exploding into jagged shards.

  I gave Greta an opportunity to tell me the truth, and she refused to take it. I don’t know why. Nor do I know what it means.

  All I know is that the title page of this book bears not just Greta’s handwriting but the exact same inscription she wrote in two other copies. The only difference is the names.

  Mine in one.

  Ingrid’s in another.

  And now this.

  Darling Erica,

  Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!

  Best wishes,

  Greta Manville

  34

  I tell myself it means nothing.

  That this is what Greta writes in every copy she signs.

  That there are hundreds of women out there with books bearing this very inscription.

  That she certainly didn’t befriend Erica and Ingrid like she did me. That she didn’t invite them in, take them to lunch, tell them about her past, and then—what? Kill them? Abduct them?

  Of course not.

  She’s not capable of that. Not physically. Not mentally.

  Greta Manville, by virtue of age and infirmity, is harmless.

  Then why did she lie? There’s nothing suspicious about signing books. Greta’s an author. It comes with the territory. If she had simply admitted to signing copies for Ingrid and Erica, I would have thought nothing of it, even with the knowledge that both are now missing. It’s her lie that has me freaking out right now.

  My hope is that Greta feels a misguided sense of protection. She knows what I’ve gone through. I’ve told her all my sad tales. It’s likely she pities me and fears knowing about the copies signed for the others would make me feel less special. As if thinking I’m her favorite will somehow make up for all the shitty things in my past.

  Or maybe Greta knew Ingrid better than she’s let on. Erica, too. She was friendly with both, knows they’re now missing, and understands that being associated with either of them might drag her unwillingly into a search. It doesn’t mean she’s involved in their disappearances. Nor does it mean she doesn’t care if they’re found. She just doesn’t have the time, energy, or stamina to look for them the same way I’m doing.

  Those two explanations are eclipsed by a third—that Greta is hiding something.

  She already told me Ingrid went to see her, allegedly to ask about the Bartholomew’s unsettling past. What if that also was a lie? What if Ingrid knocked on Greta’s door asking not about the building but about Erica?

  It’s not as outlandish as it sounds. I ended up on Greta’s doorstep seeking information about Ingrid. Which makes it possible she did the same in regards to Erica. Maybe, like I did, she had reason to believe Greta and Erica were friends.

  On the flip side, maybe Ingrid did ask Greta about the Bartholomew, because she suspected Erica had done the same thing. Iffy but still possible. In order for that logic to hold, I need something to suggest Erica had also been looking into the building’s past.

  I return to the crimson sofa with Erica’s phone, opening the web browser to check her bookmarked sites and browsing history. The bookmarks are typical for a young woman in Manhattan. The MTA schedule, a local weather site, a handful of takeout menus. Her browser history, however, is empty, meaning Erica had cleared it. Of course. It was ridiculous of me to expect a browser history filled with incriminating searches about the Bartholomew’s dark past.

  Rather than close the browser, which I should do, or toss the phone across the room, which is what I want to do, I start a Google search. No, Erica didn’t save her browser history, but there’s a chance she used the autocomplete function, which automatically types frequently queried topics into the search bar.

  I start with the Bartholomew. Just typing in a single T brings up a familiar name. Thomas Bartholomew—the doctor who designed and built this place, only to leap from its roof half a year later. Erica was clearly reading up on him.

  I click, and the screen is filled with articles about the ill-fated Dr. Bartholomew. The first link takes me to the same New York Times article I’d read a few days ago.

  TRAGEDY STRIKES BARTHOLOMEW

  I go back to the search page and keep scrolling, not stopping until I find something that doesn’t seem to address the death of Dr. Bartholomew. Clicking the link, I’m taken to a listing for the Bartholomew in a no-frills directory of Manhattan real estate. It’s nothing more than the building’s name, address, and a dusting of facts.

  Year Built: 1919

  Number of units: 44

  Owner: This building is privately owned and operated by the Bartholomew family. No p
ublic records regarding building value, annual profit, and income or estimated price per unit could be found.

  I close the web browser and try a different approach, scrolling once more through Erica’s old texts. There’s little of interest. Just routine exchanges with friends or arranging trysts with Dylan. It’s the same with her call log. In the days leading to her disappearance, Erica called only Hunan Palace and Dylan.

  But she did receive a call from Ingrid on October third.

  The day before she disappeared.

  I quickly swipe to Erica’s voicemail, bypassing the ones Dylan and I listened to in the park. Just beyond them is a message we didn’t get to.

  I tap it and hear Ingrid’s voice, hushed and worried.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday, so I did a little digging. And you’re right. There’s something deeply weird going on here. I still don’t exactly know what it is, but I’m starting to get really freaked out. Call me.”

  Erica never called back, which means she either talked to Ingrid in person or thought returning the call wasn’t important. I suspect it was the former. Ingrid’s message sounds too worried to ignore. Which makes me wonder about not just what Erica had told her but what Ingrid discovered afterward. Unfortunately, neither of them is around to provide an answer.

  I put down Erica’s phone and pick up my own. I then text Ingrid, even though I already know she’s not going to respond. I do it out of desperation, on the unlikely chance that, of the dozens of texts I’ve sent in the past few days, this will finally be the one she sees and replies to.

  If you’re out there and can see this, PLEASE respond. I need to talk to you about the Bartholomew and Erica and what you know about both. It’s important.

  I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, lean back on the crimson sofa, and stare at the wall. Unlike Greta, I can’t choose what I see in the patterned wallpaper. They’re faces, whether I like it or not.

  Right now, they watch me passively, their dark mouths dropped open, as if they’re trying to talk, laugh, or sing. Shifting nervously in their gaze, I close my eyes. Silly, I know. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t see me.

  My eyes snap open when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.

  A text has arrived.

  I pick it up, shock turning my body cold when I see who it’s from.

  Ingrid.

  Hi, Jules. Please don’t be worried. I’m fine.

  Relief rushes through me. It starts at my hands and feet before coursing into my limbs, warm and glorious.

  I was wrong. About everything. Ingrid isn’t dead or kidnapped. And if there’s a logical explanation for her absence, then there are possibly ones for what happened to Erica and Megan.

  What I need to know now, though, is what that explanation is.

  I send three texts in response, my still-warm fingers flying over the screen.

  Where are you?

  Are you OK?

  What is going on?

  A minute passes with no response. After two more go by, I start to pace back and forth across the sitting room. I occupy myself by counting my steps. I get to sixty-seven when three blue dots appear on the phone’s screen, rippling like a tiny wave. Ingrid typing her reply.

  In Pennsylvania. A friend hooked me up with a waitressing job.

  I’ve been worried, I write. Why didn’t you call or text back?

  This time, a reply comes immediately.

  I left my phone on the bus. It took days to get it back.

  I wait for more, expecting a flurry of texts as exuberantly descriptive as the way Ingrid talked. But when her response arrives, it’s the opposite. Staid, almost dull.

  Sorry for any confusion.

  Why did you leave without telling me?

  I didn’t have time, Ingrid texts back. Short notice.

  But that makes no sense. I was at Ingrid’s door literally minutes before she left. All she did was simply confirm our plans to meet in the park.

  Then it hits me—this isn’t Ingrid.

  All the relief I had felt minutes earlier is gone, replaced with a sharp-edged chill that sends pinpricks of dread across my skin.

  I’m communicating with the person who made Ingrid disappear.

  My first thought is to call the police and let them sort everything out. But Dylan and I have both already gone to the police, with disappointing results. In order for them to get involved, I need more than a hunch that this isn’t Ingrid.

  I need proof.

  Call me, I type.

  The reply is instantaneous. Can’t.

  Why not?

  Too noisy here.

  I need to be careful. My suspicion is starting to show. Rather than reply, I grip the phone, my thumbs poised just above the screen. I need to think of a way to get whoever this is to definitively reveal they’re not Ingrid—without realizing they’re doing it.

  What’s my nickname? I finally type.

  On the screen, the blue dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Ingrid-but-not-Ingrid is thinking. I watch the dots come and go while hoping against hope that when an answer does appear, it will be the correct one.

  Juju.

  The nickname Ingrid gave me in the park that day.

  I want this to be the truth instead of the dreadful-but-likely scenario that’s been in my thoughts ever since talking to Dylan.

  The answer finally arrives, announcing itself with a buzz.

  Trick question. You don’t have a nickname. Jules is your real name.

  I yelp and throw the phone. A quick, frantic toss. Like a firecracker. The phone hits the floor and does a single flip before landing facedown in the sitting room carpet. I remain on the crimson sofa, motionless, my heart dripping like hot candle wax into the pit of my stomach.

  There’s only one person who knows that.

  And it’s definitely not Ingrid.

  It’s Nick.

  35

  My phone buzzes again, the sound muted by the carpet.

  I stay where I am. I don’t need to see this new text to know the truth. I have my memory.

  Me sitting in Nick’s kitchen, my wounded arm freshly clean, him making small talk, asking me if Jules was a nickname.

  Most people think it’s short for Julia or Julianne, but Jules is my given name.

  Other than Chloe and Andrew, he’s the only person in recent memory who’s been told the story behind my name. How stupid I was, basking in Nick’s attention, enjoying that zap of attraction when he looked into my eyes.

  The phone buzzes again.

  This time, I move, approaching it with caution. Like it’s something that can sting. Rather than pick it up, I flip the phone onto its back and read the texts I’ve missed.

  Jules?

  You still there?

  I’m still staring at the words when there’s a knock on the door. A single, startling rap that makes me look up from the phone and gasp.

  A second knock arrives. As nerve-jangling as the first.

  Nick’s voice follows. “Jules? Are you home?”

  It’s him.

  Just on the other side of the door.

  Almost as if he’s been summoned by my suspicion.

  I don’t answer the door.

  I can’t.

  Nor can I say anything. A single tremulous word from me will tip him off that I know. About everything.

  I turn and face the door, noting the way it’s framed by the sitting room archway. A door within a door.

  Then I see the chain dangling from the doorframe.

  Just below it is the deadbolt, also in unlocked position.

  In the center of the doorknob itself, the latch lays flat.

  The door is completely unlocked.

  I leap to my feet and rush toward the foyer, trying to make as little noise as possible. If I don’t answer, maybe Nick will go away.

  Instead, he knocks again. I’m in the foyer now, inching closer to the door. The sound—so loud, so clo
se—prompts a startled huff.

  I press my back against the door, hoping Nick can’t sense my presence. I can certainly feel his. A disturbance of air mere inches away.

  Nick could charge right in if he wanted to. One twist of the doorknob is all it would take.

  Luckily, he only talks.

  “Jules,” he says. “If you’re there and can hear me, I just want to apologize for this morning. I shouldn’t have brushed off your concern about not being in your apartment all night. It was cavalier of me.”

  With my left hand, I reach out to touch the doorknob, my fingers sliding over the unlocked latch at its center.

  “Anyway, I also want you to know that I had a really great time last night. It was amazing. All of it.”

  I grasp the latch between my thumb and forefingers. Holding my breath, I turn it upward, my left arm twisting at an odd angle. Pain pinches my knuckles.

  Then my wrist.

  Then my elbow.

  I keep turning the latch, millimeter by millimeter.

  “As for what happened, well, I don’t want you to think I usually move so fast. I was—”

  The lock slides into place with a noticeable click.

  Nick hears it and stops, waiting for me to make another sound.

  Beside me, the doorknob turns.

  He’s testing the lock, moving it back and forth.

  After another breathless second, he resumes talking.

  “I was caught up in the moment. I think we both were. Not that I regret it. I don’t. It’s just, I want you to know I’m not that kind of guy.”

  Nick departs. I hear his footsteps retreating. Still, I remain at the door, not moving, afraid he’ll suddenly return.

  But I heard what he had to say.

  He isn’t that kind of guy.

  I believe him.

  He’s someone else entirely.

  36

  I pace the sitting room, crossing back and forth in front of the windows. Outside, night settles over Central Park with silent swiftness, coating it in darkness. Bow Bridge has become a pale strip over black water. A single person strolls across it, oblivious to the fact that she’s being watched.