Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  I still hear it as I run across the street.

  Eleven blocks to go.

  I keep running, my pace quickening to a full sprint. Most people hear me coming and step out of the way. Those that don’t are shoved aside.

  I ignore their hard stares and angry gestures as I pass. All I can focus on is getting to the Bartholomew as fast as possible and, once I’m there, leaving just as quickly.

  Stay calm.

  Stay focused.

  Get in.

  Get out.

  As I run, I make a list of what to grab once I’m back in 12A. The photograph of my family. That’s my main priority. The photo fifteen-year-old me took of Jane and my parents that now sits in a frame next to the bed. Everything else can be replaced.

  I’ll also grab my phone charger, my laptop, some clothes. Nothing that can’t fit into a single box. There won’t be enough time for a return trip. Not with the minutes ticking by and the blocks passing slowly, even though I’m running as fast as I can.

  Five more blocks.

  Four more.

  Three more.

  I reach the end of another block and cross the street against the light, barely skirting past an oncoming Range Rover.

  I keep running. My lungs are on fire. So are my legs. My knees scream. My heart pounds so hard I worry it might burst right through my rib cage.

  I slow down once I near the Bartholomew. An unconscious winding down. Approaching the building, I scan the sidewalk, looking for signs of Dylan.

  He’s not there.

  Not a good sign.

  The only person I see is Charlie, who stands at the front door, holding it open, waiting for me to come inside.

  “Evening, Jules,” he says, a good-natured smile widening beneath his bushy mustache. “You must have been busy. You’ve been out all day.”

  I look at him and wonder how much he knows.

  Everything?

  Nothing?

  I’m tempted to say something. Ask for his help. Warn him to leave just as quickly as I’m about to. It’s a risk I can’t take.

  Not yet.

  “Job hunting,” I say, forcing my own smile.

  Charlie tilts his head in curiosity. “Any luck?”

  “Yes.” I pause, stalling. Then it comes to me. My perfectly rational excuse for leaving. “I got a job. In Queens. But because the commute is so far, I won’t be able live here anymore. I’ll be staying with friends until I can find a place.”

  “You’re leaving us?”

  I nod. “Right now.”

  When Charlie frowns, I can’t tell if his disappointment is genuine or as fake as my smile. Not even after he says, “Well, I for one hate to see you go. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”

  He continues to hold the door, waiting for me to enter. I hesitate, taking a quick glance at the gargoyles that hover over the front door.

  At one point, I thought they were whimsical. Now, like everything else about the building, they terrify me.

  Inside the Bartholomew, all is quiet. There’s no sign of Dylan here, either. No signs of anyone. The entire lobby is empty.

  I hurry to the elevator, my body resisting every step. By now I’m moving only through sheer force of will, commanding my stubborn muscles to step into the elevator, close the grate, press the button for the eleventh floor.

  The elevator rises, lifting me higher into a building that’s eerily silent. On the eleventh floor, I push out of the elevator and move quickly down the hall to Dylan’s apartment.

  I knock on Dylan’s door. A quick trio of raps.

  “Dylan?”

  I knock again. Harder this time, the door shaking beneath my fist.

  “Dylan, are you there? We need to—”

  The door swings away, leaving my fist swiping at nothing but air before dropping to my side. Then Leslie Evelyn appears. Filling the empty doorway. Wearing her black Chanel suit like armor. Wielding a fake smile.

  My heart, which had been pounding like thunder in my chest, suddenly stops.

  “Jules.” Leslie’s voice is sickly sweet. Honey laced with poison. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  I start to feel myself leaning to the side. Or maybe I’m not and it only feels that way. Shock leaving me reeling, unmoored, adrift. I can think of only one reason why Leslie would be in Dylan’s apartment.

  I’m too late.

  Dylan’s been taken.

  Just like Megan and Erica and God knows how many people before them.

  “Can I help you with something?” Leslie says, her eyelids fluttering in mock concern.

  My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Fear and shock have stolen my voice. Instead, I hear Ingrid’s voice, blasting like a siren into my thoughts.

  Run away as fast as you can.

  I do.

  Away from Leslie. Down the hall. To the stairwell.

  Rather than down, I go up. I have to. Others might be waiting for me in the lobby.

  My only option is 12A. If I can get there, then I can lock the door, call the police, demand that an officer come and escort me from the building. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Ingrid’s gun.

  So I start to climb, even though my knee throbs and my hands shake and shock has left me numb.

  Up the stairs.

  Counting them as I go.

  Ten steps. Landing. Ten steps.

  Finally on the twelfth floor, I hurry down the hall, winded and aching. Soon I’m inside 12A, almost weeping with relief.

  I slam the door behind me and secure it.

  Lock. Deadbolt. Chain.

  I slump against the door for a sliver of a second to catch my breath. Then it’s down the hall, up more stairs, going slower this time.

  In the bedroom, I go straight to the nightstand and grab the framed photo of my family. Everything else is expendable. This is all I need.

  With the picture tucked under my arm, I descend the winding steps one last time. Soon I’ll be in the kitchen, calling the police, digging out the gun, cradling it in my lap until help arrives.

  At the bottom of the steps, I move into the hallway and stop.

  Nick is there.

  He stands straight-backed just beyond the foyer, blocking any attempt I might make to leave. Something’s in his hand, held behind his back where I can’t see it.

  His face is expressionless. A blank slate onto which I project a hundred fears.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” he says.

  43

  How did you get in here?” I say.

  A wasted question. I already know. Behind Nick, in the study, part of the bookshelf sits askew. Beyond it is dark rectangle. A passageway connecting one apartment to the other. If I searched it, I’m sure I would find a small set of steps in the wall leading to both 11A and 11B.

  Nick could have entered 12A anytime he wanted. In fact, I think he did. That noise I heard early in the mornings. The soft swishing sound, like socks on carpet or the train of a dress sliding across a table leg.

  That was Nick.

  Coming and going like a ghost.

  “Where’s Dylan?” I’m so frightened I can no longer recognize my voice. Pitched high and tremulous, it sounds like someone else. A stranger. “What have you done to him?”

  “Didn’t Leslie tell you? He moved out.”

  Nick smirks as he says it. A slight, scary upturn of his lips. I see it and know for certain that Dylan is dead. Nausea rushes through me in a fast and furious wave. I grip my stomach, certain I’d be throwing up right now if it wasn’t completely empty. All I can do is gag.

  “Please let me leave.” I swallow hard, gasping for breath. “I won’t tell anyone what’s going on here.”

  “And just what do you think is going on?” Nick says.

  “Nothing,” I reply, as if that clear lie is all it will take to convince him to let me go.

  Nick gives a sad shake of his head. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

  He takes a step forward. I do the oppos
ite, taking two backward.

  “Let’s make a bargain,” he says. “If you tell me where Ingrid is, then maybe—just maybe—we’ll take her and spare you. How does that sound?”

  It sounds like a lie. One as obvious as mine.

  “I guess that’s a no,” Nick says when I don’t answer. “That’s a shame.”

  He takes another step and reveals what’s been held behind his back.

  The stun gun, a blue spark dancing across its tip.

  I sprint down the hall, cutting right, into the kitchen. Once inside, I drop to my knees, sliding across the floor, aiming for the cupboard under the sink. I fling open the door and grasp at the shoe box, knocking it onto its side, the lid askew.

  The box is empty.

  I’m hit with a blast of memory. Me texting Ingrid about the gun. A text, I now realize, she never saw.

  Other than me, Nick is the only one who knows about that text.

  Behind me, his voice rises from the hallway.

  “I admire your survival instincts, Jules. I do. But having a gun in the apartment is far too dangerous. I had to remove it and put it in a safe place.”

  He rounds the corner and steps into the kitchen. He’s in no hurry. There’s no need to be. Not when I’m trapped like this. Alone and defenseless. Armed with nothing but a framed photo of my family, which I hold out in front of me like a shield.

  “This doesn’t have to end violently, you know,” Nick says. “Offer yourself up peacefully. It’s easier that way.”

  I search the kitchen, desperately looking for a weapon. The wood block of knives on the counter is too close to where Nick is standing, and the utensil drawer is too far away from me. He’ll be on me the moment I make a move for either.

  Still, I have to try something. No matter what Nick says, going in peace is not an option.

  To my right is the closed cupboard tucked between the oven and sink. I fling it open, revealing the dumbwaiter behind it. Nick moves as soon as I start to clamber inside. I’m halfway inside the dumbwaiter by the time he reaches me, the stun gun sparking. I kick at him. Wildly. Savagely. Screaming as my foot connects with his chest.

  Through eyes half-closed with fear, I see another blue crackle of the stun gun. I kick again, aiming higher, at his face, his glasses crackling beneath my heel.

  Nick yelps and reels backward.

  The stun gun blinks out and clatters to the floor.

  I pull my leg into the dumbwaiter, suddenly reminded of how small it really is. Using both hands, I give the rope a tug. A second later, the dumbwaiter plummets and I’m thrown into darkness.

  I try to keep hold of the rope as the dumbwaiter drops, but it’s moving too fast, zipping over my palms, slicing into them. I pull my hands away, clamp my knees against the rope, hoping it will slow my descent.

  I can’t tell if it’s working. It’s too dark, and the dumbwaiter is too loud, creaking under my weight. A line of heat forms at my knees. Friction burning through the denim of my jeans. I part my knees and scream again, the sound consumed by the noise of the dumbwaiter as it smashes into the apartment below.

  The impact blasts through my entire body. My head snaps backward. Pain shoots up my spine. My limbs smack against the sides of the dumbwaiter.

  When it’s all over, I wait in the darkness, aching and scared and wondering if I’m too injured to move. Because I am injured. Of that there’s no doubt. Pain rings my neck, hot and throbbing. A noose of heat.

  But I can lift the dumbwaiter door and crawl out, careful not to jar my battered body. As I slide onto the kitchen floor of 11A, I’m surprised to see I can walk, albeit slowly. Pain hobbles every step.

  I grit my teeth and push through, moving out of the kitchen and into the foyer, where I fling open the door.

  Out of 11A, the pain lessens with each step. Fear, I think. Maybe adrenaline. It doesn’t matter if it gets me down the hallway faster.

  As I approach the elevator, I see that—miracle of miracles—it’s still stopped on the eleventh floor. The door sits open, as if waiting for me. I run toward it, suddenly aware of motion to my left.

  Nick.

  Coming down the steps from the twelfth floor, the stun gun zapping. His glasses dangle from one ear, the frames slanted across his face. The right lens is shattered. Blood oozes from a cut below his right eye, like crimson tears.

  I throw myself into the elevator and pound the button for the lobby.

  Nick reaches the elevator as the outer door closes. He thrusts his arm between the bars, stun gun sparking like St. Elmo’s fire.

  I reach for the interior grate and slam it into his arm, pinning it against the door.

  I pull back and do it again.

  Harder this time.

  So hard that Nick jerks his arm away, the stun gun falling from his hand.

  I slam the grate into place, and the elevator begins to carry me downward. Before I sink beyond the eleventh floor, I see Nick take to the stairs.

  Tenth floor.

  Nick is flying down the steps. I can’t see him yet, but his shoes slap against the marble, echoing down to me.

  Ninth floor.

  He’s getting closer. I get a glimpse of his feet crossing the landing between floors before the elevator slides out of view.

  Eighth floor.

  A scream for help balloons in my lungs. I keep it inside. Just like Ingrid’s, it will go ignored.

  Seventh floor.

  I spot Marianne standing on the landing, watching. No makeup. No sunglasses. Her face a sickly yellow.

  Sixth floor.

  Nick speeds up after passing Marianne. He’s in full view now. A churning blur streaking across the landing, descending almost at the same speed as the elevator.

  Fifth floor.

  I bend down and scoop up the stun gun, surprisingly heavy in my hand.

  Fourth floor.

  I press the button on the side of the stun gun, testing it. The tip sparks in a single, startling zap.

  Third floor.

  Nick continues to keep pace with me. I rotate in the elevator car, watching out the windows as he moves. Ten steps, landing, ten more steps.

  Second floor.

  I stand with my hand on the grate, ready to fling it open as soon as the elevator stops.

  Lobby.

  I burst out of the elevator just as Nick starts down the staircase’s final ten steps. I’ve got roughly ten feet on him. Maybe less.

  I cross the lobby in frantic strides, not daring to look back. My heart pounds and my head swims and my body hurts so much that I can’t feel the stun gun in my hand or my family’s photo still tucked under my arm. My vision narrows so that all I can see is the front door ten feet from me.

  Now five.

  Now one.

  Safety’s just on the other side of that door.

  Police and pedestrians and strangers who’ll have to stop and help.

  I reach the door.

  I push it open.

  Someone shoves me away from the door. A large, hulking presence. My vision expands, taking in his cap, his uniform, his mustache.

  Charlie.

  “I can’t let you leave, Jules,” he says. “I’m sorry. They promised me. They promised my daughter.”

  Without thinking, I fire up the stun gun and jab it into his stomach, the tip buzzing and sparking until Charlie is doubled over, grunting in agony.

  I drop the stun gun, push out the door, zoom across the sidewalk and into the street.

  Charlie calls out behind me, “Jules, look out!”

  Still running, I risk a glance behind me and see him still doubled over in the doorway, Nick by his side.

  There’s more noise. A cacophony. The honk of a horn. The screech of tires. Someone, somewhere screams. It sounds like a siren.

  Then something slams into me and I’m knocked sideways, flying out of control, hurtling into oblivion.

  NOW

  When I wake, it’s with jolting suddenness. My eyelids don’t flutter open. There�
�s no lazy, dry-mouthed yawn. I simply go from darkness to light in an instant, feeling the same way I did before I went to sleep.

  Panicked.

  I understand the situation with neon clarity. Chloe is in danger. Ingrid, too, if they ever find her. I need to help them.

  Right now.

  I look to the open door. The room is dark, the hallway silent. Nary a whisper or sneaker squeak to be heard.

  “Hello?” Thirst has distorted my voice, turning it into an ungainly croak. “I need—”

  To call the police.

  That’s what I want to say. But my throat seizes up, cutting me off. I force out a cough, more to get the attention of a nurse than to revive my voice.

  I try again, louder this time. “Hello?”

  No one answers.

  The hall, for the moment, appears to be empty.

  I search the table by the bed for a phone. There isn’t one. Nor is there a call button with which to summon a nurse.

  I slide out of bed, relieved to discover I can walk, although not very well. My legs are wobbly and weak, and my entire body is gripped with pain. But soon I’m out of the room, into a hallway that’s shorter than I expected. Just a dim corridor with doors leading to two other rooms and a small nurses’ station that’s currently empty.

  There’s no phone there, either.

  “Hello?” I call out. “I need help.”

  Another door sits at the end of the hall, closed tight.

  It’s white.

  Windowless.

  And heavy, a fact I learn when I try to pry it open. It takes an extra tug and a pain-flaring grunt to finally get it open.

  I pass through it, finding myself in another hallway.

  One I think I’ve seen before. Like all my recollections of late, it’s vague in my mind. A half memory made hazy by pain and worry and sedatives.

  The hallway turns. I turn with it, rounding the corner into another hall.

  To my right is a kitchen done up in muted earth tones. Above the sink is a painting. A snake curled into a perfect figure eight, chomping on its own tail.

  Beyond the kitchen is a dining room. Beyond that are windows. Beyond them is Central Park colored orange by the setting sun, making it look like the whole park is on fire.