Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  Whatever was inside must have been very useful indeed, for Greta made a clean getaway. No one has seen or heard from her since, a fact that messes with my emotions more than it should. While I have a burning desire to see her brought to justice, I also know that I never would have escaped without her help.

  Then there’s the fact that she literally has a piece of me with her everywhere she goes. I wasn’t lying when I told her I hoped she lived a long, long time. Otherwise it would all be such a waste.

  As for me, I’m still adjusting to my new existence as a celebrity victim—two words, by the way, that should never have been used together. Yet that’s what I was called, during those few weeks when I was a media darling. Everyone was talking about the plain, quiet girl with no job and no family who took down an evil criminal enterprise. Chloe took a two-week leave of absence from work to help me deal with all the interview requests. I did the bare minimum. A few phone interviews. Nothing in person. Definitely nothing on camera.

  I told the reporters exactly what happened, without embellishment. The truth is bizarre enough. I ended each interview by talking about Jane, imploring anyone with the slightest bit of information to please come forward, anonymously if necessary.

  So far, there have been no new leads.

  Until there are, I’ll keep trying, hoping for the best but planning for the worst.

  But people have been generous in other ways. My former boss called to tell me my old job was waiting for me if I ever wanted to return. I politely declined. The day I was released from the hospital, Andrew showed up with flowers. He didn’t stay long or say very much. He just told me he was sorry. I believe him.

  Then there’s the GoFundMe page Chloe set up to help pay for my medical expenses. Although I wasn’t keen on the idea of accepting charity, I didn’t have a choice. When your sole possession is a broken picture frame, you come to terms with relying on the kindness of strangers.

  And people have truly been kind. I’ve received so many clothes that Bobbie and I started handing things out at the homeless shelter. Same thing with shoes and phone and laptops. Everything I’ve lost has been replaced threefold.

  That’s in addition to the money I’ve received. More than sixty thousand dollars in five months. The amount got to be so high that I begged Chloe to close the account. That’s more than enough money, especially considering how on Monday, I’ll be starting a new job at a nonprofit group that tries to help people locate missing loved ones. They asked if I wanted to work for them after I used some of my GoFundMe money to make a donation in Jane’s memory. I said yes. The office is small. The salary is even smaller. But I’ll get by.

  I’m feeding Rufus a barbecue spare rib when I notice the time. Quarter after one.

  “We need to go,” I tell Ingrid.

  Ingrid brushes rice from her lap and jumps to her feet. “We definitely don’t want to be late for this.”

  “Are you positive you want to do this?” Chloe says.

  “I think we need to,” I tell her. “Whether we want to or not.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” she says. “With wine.”

  On the walk to the PATH station, I get a few strange looks from passersby. I’m finally being noticed, for all the wrong reasons. On the train itself, I spot a girl reading Heart of a Dreamer. Not my first sighting since word got out that Greta Manville was involved with the Bartholomew’s dark doings. The book is suddenly back in vogue, returning to bestseller lists for the first time in decades.

  The girl catches me watching and does a double-take of recognition. “Sorry,” she says.

  “Don’t be,” I say. “It’s a really good book.”

  Ingrid and I reach the Bartholomew just before two, finding the block closed off to cars. The crane and wrecking ball have already arrived, parked in the middle of Central Park West like some giant, metal beast. A temporary fence has been erected around it, presumably to deter onlookers.

  It doesn’t work. The park side of the street is mobbed. Many are from news outlets, their cameras aimed at the building across the street. Others are the morbidly curious who want to boast that they were there when the infamous Bartholomew was demolished. Rounding out the pack are well-meaning but misguided protestors who lift signs that read save the bartholomew.

  Despite its age and notoriety, the building had never been granted historical status from the city. The Bartholomew family wanted it that way. Historical designation meant more oversight—something they needed to avoid.

  With Nick dead and without historical status, the Bartholomew became just like any average building in Manhattan—available to buy and, if the new owner saw fit, demolish. Which is what the real estate conglomerate that bought it immediately decided to do. Unlike the protestors, they’re fully aware no one in their right mind would buy an apartment that had been used in an organ transplant black market.

  Now the Bartholomew faces its final minutes, and half the city has come out to watch it die.

  Ingrid and I push our way into the fray. We go unnoticed, thanks to the accessories we donned after emerging from the subway. Knit caps and sunglasses and jackets with the collars pulled up around our necks.

  I peer through the chain-link fence at the Bartholomew, which stands as solemn and silent as a mausoleum. It’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on it in six months. Seeing it again brings a fearful chill, which shoots through my bones even after I tighten my jacket.

  Missing from the northern corner of the roof is George. At my request, he was removed and put into the care of the nearby New-York Historical Society. City officials were happy to oblige. The plan is to put George on display as a monument to the people who died there. I hope it happens. It might be nice to visit him.

  The crowd around us goes silent as a worker climbs into the cab of the crane. Once he’s in place, an alarm sounds. So loud I feel it in my chest.

  I start to cry, the tears sudden and unstoppable. Most of them are for those who never left the Bartholomew. Dylan especially, but also Erica, Megan, Ruby, and so many more.

  I cry for my family.

  Jane, who may or may not still be out there.

  My parents, who had been beaten down by life until they simply gave up.

  But a few of those tears, I know, are reserved for me. Younger, more hopeful me, who saw the Bartholomew on a book cover and believed the promises it offered were real. That girl is gone now, replaced by someone wiser and harder but no less hopeful.

  Ingrid sees the tears streaming out from beneath my sunglasses and says, “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I say. “But I will be.”

  I wipe away the tears, grip Ingrid’s hand, and watch the wrecking ball swing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For me, the most difficult part of finishing a book is this page right here. It’s quite hard trying to thank a group of people when you already know words aren’t enough to express your gratitude. Still, an attempt must be made. To that end, here’s a heaping helping of thanks.

  To Maya Ziv, my amazing US editor, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Random House who have worked so hard on my behalf. You are everything an author could want and more. I would be lost without our Dream team.

  To everyone at Ebury, my UK publisher, for keeping things running smoothly across the pond. My UK editor, Gillian Green, deserves a special shoutout for calling this book “positively Hitchcockian,” which is probably the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.

  To my agent, Michelle Brower, and everyone at Aevitas Creative Management for always having my back. I’m so proud to be among your list of authors, and I am so grateful for everything you do.

  To my friends and family, who continue to cheer me on from the sidelines.

  To the readers who have embraced my books in the past three years.

  To the bloggers and Instagram users who have been so generous with both their praise and their photography skills.

  Finally, to Mike Livio, whose patience and understanding
continue to astound me on a daily basis. None of this would be possible without you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lock Every Door is the third thriller from Riley Sager, the pseudonym of an author who lives in Princeton, New Jersey. Riley’s first novel, Final Girls, was a national and international bestseller that has been published in more than two dozen countries, won the ITW Thriller Award for Best Hardcover Novel, and is currently being developed into a feature film by Universal Pictures. Sager’s second novel, The Last Time I Lied, was a New York Times bestseller.