Lock Every Door

by Riley Sager

  Only one? I have a hundred. But I noticed the pronoun she used. Not my book. Or the book. It tells me she’d rather talk about anything other than Heart of a Dreamer.

  “Why did you stop writing?”

  “The short answer is because I’m lazy. And unmotivated. Also, I have no financial need to write. My family was wealthy. The book made me wealthier. Even today, it generates enough income to allow me to live very comfortably.”

  “In the Bartholomew, no less,” I say. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Are you asking if I lived here when I wrote Heart of a Dreamer?”

  That’s exactly what I’m asking. Being read so easily makes me take another gulp of wine.

  “The answer to your real, unsolicited question is yes,” Greta says. “I was living at the Bartholomew when I wrote it.”

  “In this apartment?”

  Greta gives a quick shake of her head. “Elsewhere.”

  “Is the book autobiographical?”

  “More like wishful thinking,” Greta replies. “Unlike Ginny, it was my parents’ apartment. I grew up there, moved out after getting married, and moved back in following my divorce. I was aimless and bitter and suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. I decided to fill it by writing what I wished my life to be like. When the book was finished, I moved out again.”

  “Why?” I ask, still unable to comprehend why anyone would choose to leave the Bartholomew.

  “Why does anyone move, really?” Greta muses. “I needed a change of view. Besides, one gets tired of living with their parents. Isn’t that why everyone eventually leaves the nest?”

  Most people, yes. But not me. I wasn’t given a choice.

  “Because of how and when the book was written, is that why you hate it so much?”

  Greta looks up, affronted. “Who says I hate it?”

  “I just assumed you did.”

  “No, you surmised,” Greta says. “There’s a difference. As for the book, I don’t hate it as much as I find myself disappointed by it.”

  “But it brought you so much success. And it’s touched so many people.”

  “I’m a very different woman now than when I wrote it. Think back to when you were younger. Think about your tastes and behavior and habits. You’ve changed since then. Evolved. We all do. Which means there are aspects of that younger version of yourself that you’d probably detest now.”

  I nod, thinking of my mother and store-brand cereal.

  “When I wrote that book, I was so in need of fantasy that I failed to do the one thing all good writers are supposed to do—tell the truth,” Greta says. “I was a liar, and that book is my biggest lie.”

  I down the rest of the wine, preparing myself for something I never thought I’d have to do—defend a book to its own author.

  “You’re forgetting that readers need fantasy, too,” I say. “My sister and I used to lie on her bed, reading Heart of a Dreamer and picturing ourselves in Ginny’s shoes. The book showed us there was life outside our tiny, dying town. The book gave us hope. Even now, after all that hope has been stripped away, I still love Heart of a Dreamer and I remain grateful that you wrote it. Sure, the Manhattan in the book doesn’t exist in real life. And no, few people in this city end up getting the happy ending Ginny received. But fiction can be an escape, which is why we need idealized versions of New York City. It balances out the crowded, gritty, heartbreaking real thing.”

  “But what about the real world?” Greta says.

  “That sister I mentioned? She disappeared when I was seventeen.” I know I should stop talking. But now that the wine has loosened my tongue, I find that I can’t. “My parents died when I was nineteen. So, frankly, I’ve had enough of the real world.”

  Greta lifts her hand, places her palm to her cheek, and spends a good ten seconds sizing me up. Caught in her stare, I freeze, embarrassed that I’ve said too much.

  “You strike me as a gentle soul,” she says.

  I’ve never thought of myself as gentle. Fragile is more like it. Prone to bruising.

  “I don’t know. I guess I am.”

  “Then you need to be careful,” she says. “This place isn’t kind to gentle souls. It chews them up and spits them out.”

  “Do you mean New York or the Bartholomew?”

  Greta keeps staring. “Both,” she says.

  15

  Greta’s words stay with me as I climb the stairs from the tenth floor to the twelfth. Not just the part about being chewed up and spit out but the reason Ingrid came to see her. Why would Ingrid be asking about the Bartholomew and its past? Or allegedly sordid past, as Greta had deemed it.

  It . . . it scares me.

  That’s what Ingrid had said about the Bartholomew. And I believed her. That little stutter seemed to me like a confession on the verge of being released. As if Ingrid was trying to tell me something she wasn’t sure could be said out loud. I dismissed it only because she did, chalking it up to loneliness and her free spirit chafing against the Bartholomew’s many rules.

  Now I suspect she was more frightened than she let on.

  Because departing without warning in the middle of the night isn’t how people leave a place when they don’t think they’re in danger.

  It’s how they leave when they’re terrified.

  Stop.

  Think.

  Assess the situation.

  Which is that it doesn’t really matter why Ingrid left the Bartholomew. Right now, my concern is finding out where she is and knowing that she’s safe. Because I have a worrisome feeling she’s not. Call it a post-Jane hunch.

  I pause on the eleventh-floor landing to check my phone. Ingrid still hasn’t read my texts. Which means she also likely hasn’t listened to the voicemail I left. I was hoping she would have responded by now, even if it was just to tell me to stop bothering her. That would be better than nothing.

  I shove the phone back into my pocket and am about to continue up the steps when Dylan, the Bartholomew’s other apartment sitter, leaves 11B. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday. Same baggy jeans. Same black discs in his ears. The only thing that’s changed is his T-shirt. Today it’s Nirvana.

  My presence on his floor clearly surprises him. His eyes widen behind a veil of floppy black hair.

  “Hey,” he says. “You lost?”

  “Trying to find someone, actually,” I say. “Did you know Ingrid at all?”

  “Not really.”

  I find that surprising, considering how outgoing Ingrid seems to be. The likely scenario is that Ingrid didn’t think Dylan was worth the effort. He’s clearly not a fan of small talk. Waiting for the elevator, he stands with his right leg bent at the knee, flexing slightly, like a runner preparing to sprint.

  “Not at all? You were neighbors. You never hung out?”

  “If saying hi to each other in the elevator means hanging out, then, sure, we hung out. Otherwise, no. Why do you want to know?”

  “Because she moved out and I’m trying to reach her.”

  Dylan’s eyes go even wider.

  “Ingrid’s gone? Since when?”

  “Sometime last night,” I say. “I was hoping she might have told you she was planning to leave.”

  “Like I said, we didn’t talk that much. She was basically a stranger.”

  “Then why do you seem so surprised?”

  “Because she just got here. I thought she’d have stayed longer.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two months,” Dylan says. “Are we about done with the questions? There’s somewhere I need to be.”

  Rather than wait for the elevator, which is in use several floors below, Dylan opts for the stairs. He’s either very late for something or extremely eager to be rid of me.

  I call after him. “Just one more thing.”


  Dylan pauses on the landing between the tenth and eleventh floors, looking up at me with his head askance.

  “Did you hear any strange noises last night?” I say. “From Ingrid’s apartment?”

  “Last night?” he says. “No, sorry. Can’t help you there.”

  Then he’s off again, speeding around the landing and down more steps before I can ask him another question. I use the stairs as well, slower than Dylan, going up instead of down.

  A few floors below me, the elevator grate slides shut with a clang. The sound rockets up the stairwell, startling me. To my right, the cables in the center of the stairwell tighten and the elevator begins to rise. When it comes into view, I see Nick inside, a stethoscope draped around his neck. Seeing me through the elevator window, he gives a friendly wave. I wave back and hurry up the remaining steps to the twelfth floor, which we reach in unison.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” Nick says as he leaves the elevator. “How’s the arm?”

  “It’s great. Thanks for, you know, fixing it.”

  I cringe at my tone. Could I be any more awkward? I blame Nick’s whole handsome-doctor vibe, which is intimidating. I suspect the wine I had at Greta’s is also at fault. It’s caught up to me now, making me a little dizzy.

  “Making a house call?” I say, gesturing to the stethoscope.

  “Yes, unfortunately. Mr. Leonard was having heart palpitations. He swore the big one was coming.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I hope so,” Nick says. “That’s not really my specialty. I made him take an aspirin and told him to call 911 if it gets any worse. Knowing him, he won’t. Mr. Leonard’s a stubborn one. And where are you coming from?”

  “The tenth floor.”

  “Making friends with the neighbors?”

  I hesitate, unsure how much I should tell him. “Is that against the rules?”

  “Technically, yes. Unless you were invited.”

  “Then I plead the fifth.”

  Nick laughs. He’s got a nice laugh—a merry chuckle that makes me happy to have caused it. I used to make Andrew laugh all the time. His throaty, trickling laugh was one of the things I liked most about him. I heard it a lot during our first months together. Slightly less after we moved in together. Then it stopped altogether and neither of us noticed. Maybe if we had, things would have turned out differently.

  “I won’t tell Leslie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Nick says. “She’s the one who insists on those silly rules. Most people here couldn’t care less what the apartment sitters do.”

  “Then I’ll confess—I went to visit Greta Manville.”

  “Now that’s a surprise. Greta doesn’t strike me as being very social, to put a polite spin on it. How on earth did you manage to charm her?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “I bribed her.”

  Nick laughs again, and I realize he’s enjoying this conversation. I am, too. I think we might be flirting. I’m not really sure. It’s probably just the wine talking. I’m not the kind of girl who flirts with her next-door neighbor.

  “It must have been important for you to resort to bribery.”

  “I needed to talk to her about Ingrid Gallagher.”

  Nick frowns. “Ah. The runaway.”

  “So you’ve heard,” I say.

  “Word travels fast in this building.”

  Just like that, I realize Ingrid made a mistake when she approached Greta Manville about the Bartholomew’s past. She should have asked someone else. Someone friendly. And handsome. And who has lived here all his life.

  “I bet you know a lot about this place,” I say.

  Nick shrugs. “I’ve heard some things over the years.”

  I bite my bottom lip, not quite believing what I’m about to say next. “Would you like to get coffee? Or maybe a bite to eat?”

  Nick gives me a surprised look. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You pick. After all, you know the neighborhood.”

  And, I hope, he also knows a lot about the Bartholomew.

  16

  Instead of going out to eat, Nick suggests retreating to his apartment. “I have leftover pizza and cold beer,” he says. “Sorry to be so simple.”

  “Simple is good,” I say.

  So is free, considering I don’t really have the money to buy my neighbor dinner while fishing for information about the Bartholomew.

  Inside 12B, Nick hands me a bottle of beer before returning to the kitchen to heat up the pizza. In his absence, I sip my beer and roam the sitting room, checking out the photographs that fill the walls. Some of them are of Nick looking dapper in a variety of far-off locales. Versailles. Venice. A savannah in Africa lit by the rising sun. Seeing them makes me wonder about the person on the other side of the camera. Was it a woman? Have they traveled the world together? Did she break his heart?

  On the coffee table is a leather-bound photo album similar to one my parents owned. It’s long gone now, like most of their belongings. I think of the framed photo currently on the nightstand in the bedroom of 12A. It’s the only picture that remains of my family, and I’m not even in it. I envy Nick and his entire album of family photos.

  The first photograph in the album is also presumably the oldest—a sepia-tinted image of a young couple standing in front of the Bartholomew. The woman has an opaque look about her, thanks to features washed out by too much sun and too little makeup. The man with her is a handsome devil, though. Familiar, too.

  I carry the album into the kitchen, where Nick is pulling slices of reheated pizza from the oven. Just behind him, the painting of the ouroboros stares at me with its single, flame-like eye.

  “Is this your family?” I ask.

  Nick leans in to get a better look at the photograph. “My great-grandparents.”

  I examine the picture, noticing the ways in which Nick resembles his great-grandfather—same smile, same granite jaw—and the ways he does not, such as in the eyes. Nick’s are softer, less hawkish.

  “They also lived in the Bartholomew?”

  “This very apartment,” Nick says. “Like I said, it’s been in my family for years.”

  I continue flipping through the album, the pictures passing in no discernible order. It’s a hodgepodge of images in various shapes, sizes, and tints. A color photo of a little boy blowing bubbles—young Nick, I assume—sits beside a black-and-white one of two people huddled together in a snowbound Central Park.

  “Those are my grandparents,” Nick tells me. “Nicholas and Tillie.”

  On the next page is a striking photograph of an even more striking woman. Her gown is satin. Silk gloves reach her elbows. Her hair is midnight black and her skin an alabaster white. Her face is made up of sharp angles that, when joined together, merge into something arresting, even beautiful.

  She stares at the camera with eyes that are at once foreign and familiar. They seem to pierce the lens, looking beyond it, directly at me. I’ve seen that look before. Not just in another photograph but in person.

  “This woman looks a bit like Greta Manville,” I say.

  “That’s because it’s her grandmother,” Nick says. “Her family and mine were friends for decades. She lived in the Bartholomew for many years. Greta’s whole family has. She’s what we call a legacy tenant.”

  “Just like you.”

  “I suppose I am. The last in a long line of Bartholomew residents.”

  “No siblings?”

  “Only child. You?”

  I glance again at the picture of Greta’s grandmother. She reminds me of Jane. Not so much in looks but in aura. I detect restlessness in her eyes. An urge to roam.

  “Same,” I say.

  “And your parents?”

  “They died,” I say quietly. “Six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Nick says. �
��It’s tough. I know that from my own experience. We grow up expecting our parents to live forever until, one day, they’re suddenly gone.”

  He transfers the pizza onto two plates and carries them to the round table in the dining room. We sit side by side, positioned so that both of us can look out the window at twilight settling over Central Park. The arrangement gives it the feel of a date, which makes me nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything resembling a date. I had forgotten what it feels like to be a normal single person.

  Only nothing about this is normal. Normal people don’t dine in rooms overlooking Central Park. Nor is their dinner companion a handsome doctor who lives in one of the most famous buildings in the city.

  “Tell me, Jules,” Nick says, “what do you do?”

  “As in for a living?”

  “That’s what I was getting at, yeah.”

  “I’m an apartment sitter.”

  “I mean other than that.”

  I take a bite of pizza, stalling. My hope is that Nick will lose patience and move to a different topic. When he doesn’t, I’m forced to swallow and admit the sad truth.

  “I’m between jobs at the moment,” I say. “I was laid off recently and haven’t been able to find something else.”

  “No harm in that,” Nick replies. “You could even look at it as a blessing in disguise. What would you really like to be doing?”

  “I . . . I don’t actually know. I’ve never given it much thought.”

  “Never?” Nick says, dropping his slice of pizza onto his plate to punctuate his surprise.

  I have, of course. When I was young and hopeful and encouraged to ponder such things. At age ten, I wanted to be a ballerina or a veterinarian, blissfully unaware of the rigors specific to both professions. In college, I chose English lit as my major with the idea that maybe I’d become an editor or a teacher. When I graduated, following Chloe from Pennsylvania to New York with a mountain of debt weighing me down, I couldn’t just wait and choose what I wanted to do. I had to take whatever job paid the bills and put food on the table.

  “Tell me about you,” I tell Nick, desperate to change the subject. “Did you always want to be a surgeon?”