by Riley Sager
For me.
For my future.
For the sister who has yet to return.
Greta slips her hand over mine, her palm hot, as if she, too, has held it to an open flame.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure you miss them greatly.”
“I do,” I say. “I miss them. I miss Jane.”
“Jane?”
“My sister. She vanished two years before the fire. There’s been no trace of her since. She might have run away. She might have been murdered. At this point, I doubt I’ll ever know.”
I’ve slumped noticeably in the booth, my arms at my sides, my body numb. My version of one of Greta’s sudden sleeps. If I feel sadness, it’s the same simmering grief I always experience. The kind of pain I long ago learned to live with. Talking about my parents and Jane doesn’t make that grief feel better or worse. It simply remains.
“Thank you for entrusting me with your story,” Greta says.
“Now you know why I prefer fantasy over reality.”
“I can’t blame you,” Greta says. “I also see why you’re so keen to find Ingrid.”
“I’m doing a terrible job of it.”
“If I were a betting woman, which I’m not, I’d wager she went off somewhere with a young man,” Greta says. “Or woman. I don’t judge when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Spoken like the woman who wrote a romance beloved by generations of teenage girls. And even though I want to believe Ingrid is off somewhere enjoying a happily-ever-after, everything I know so far suggests the opposite.
“I just can’t shake the feeling she’s in trouble,” I say. “She specifically told me she had nowhere else to go.”
“If you suspect something bad happened, why don’t you go to the police?”
“I called them. It didn’t go well. They said there wasn’t enough information to get involved.”
This elicits a sympathetic sigh from Greta. “If I were you, I’d call some of the hospitals in the area. Maybe there was an accident and she required medical treatment. If that doesn’t work, I’d look around the neighborhood. If she has no place to go, then there’s a chance she’s out on the streets. I know it’s hard to think someone we know might be homeless, but have you checked any of the city’s shelters?”
“You think I should?”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt,” Greta says with a firm nod. “Ingrid Gallagher might be there, hiding in plain sight.”
23
The nearest homeless shelter for women is twenty blocks south and two blocks west of the restaurant. After making sure Greta can get back to the Bartholomew on her own, I go there on the slim chance that she’s right and Ingrid is living on the streets.
The shelter is housed in a building that’s seen better days. The exterior is brown brick. The windows are tinted. It used to be a YMCA, as evidenced by the ghost of those letters hovering to the right of the main entrance. Also hovering there is a group of women smoking in a semicircle. All of them eye me with suspicion as I approach. A silent message telling me what I already know.
Just like at the Bartholomew, I do not belong here.
I’m starting to think I don’t belong anywhere. That it’s my lot in life to occupy a limbo all my own. Still, I approach them and smile, trying not to act frightened, even though I am. Which then makes me feel guilty. I have more in common with these women than with anyone at the Bartholomew.
I remove my phone from my pocket and hold it up so they can see the selfie of Ingrid and me in Central Park. “Have any of you seen this girl in the past few days?”
Only one woman in the smoking circle bothers to look. She stares at the photo with hard eyes while biting the inside of her razor-sharp cheeks. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft. I thought she’d sound as weathered as she looks.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t seen her. Not around here.”
I assume she’s the ringleader of this ragtag group, because she nudges the others, compelling them to take a look. They shake their heads, murmur, look away.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
Under the watchful gaze of the smokers, I make my way into the building. Just inside the door is an empty waiting area and a registration desk behind a shield of scuffed reinforced glass. On the other side sits a plump woman who studies me with the same disdain as the women outside.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Are you in need of shelter?”
“No,” I say. “I’m looking for someone. A friend.”
“Has she entered herself into the shelter system?” the woman asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is she under the age of twenty-one? Because that means she’d be at a different facility.”
“She’s over twenty-one,” I say.
“If she has children or is currently pregnant, she’d be at one of our PATH shelters,” the woman adds. “There are also separate facilities for victims of domestic violence. If she’s been on the street awhile, you might find her at a drop-in center.”
I lean back, overwhelmed not just by the sheer number of locations and designations but the fact that there’s a need for all of them. Once more, it makes me feel fortunate that I found the Bartholomew. It also makes me fear what will happen once I leave.
“No kids,” I tell the woman. “Single. No abuse.”
That I know of.
The realization blasts into my thoughts like a radio at full volume. Just because Ingrid didn’t mention abuse doesn’t mean there wasn’t any. I again think of the many places she’s lived, the endless moving, the gun she bought—possibly when she assumed running was no longer an option.
“Then she’d have come here,” the woman says.
I press my phone against the glass so she can see the photo I showed the smokers outside. After a moment’s contemplation, she says, “She doesn’t look familiar, sweetie. But I’m only here during the day. This place fills up at night, so there’s a chance she’s here then and I just missed her.”
“Is it possible to talk to someone who is here at night? Maybe they’d recognize her.”
She gestures to a pair of double doors opposite the desk. “There’s a few of them still in there. You’re welcome to take a look.”
I push through the doors into a gymnasium that’s been turned into a space for two hundred people. An army of temporary tenants. Identical cots have been spread across the gym floor in untidy rows of twenty each.
I walk among the cots, seeking out the few that are occupied just in case one of them is Ingrid. At the end of the row, a woman sits straight-backed on the edge of her cot. She stares at a nearby set of roll-away bleachers that have been pressed against the wall. Taped to it is an inspirational poster. A field of lavender swaying in the breeze. At the bottom is a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt.
With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.
“Every day, before I leave for work, I sit and stare at this poster, hoping that Eleanor is right,” the woman says. “But so far, each new day only brings the same old shit.”
“It could be worse,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. “We could be dead.”
“Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind seeing that on an inspirational poster.” The woman slaps her thigh and lets out a raucous laugh that fills our side of the gymnasium. “I haven’t seen you before. You new?”
“Just visiting,” I say.
“Lucky you.”
I take that to mean she’s been here awhile. A surprise, seeing how she doesn’t look homeless. Her clothes are clean and well-pressed. Khaki pants, white shirt, blue cardigan. All of them in better condition than what I’m wearing. My sweater has a hole at the cuff that I cover with my left hand as I hold out the phone with my right.
“I’m l
ooking for someone who might be staying here. This is a recent picture of her.”
The woman eyes the photo of Ingrid and me with curiosity. “Her face doesn’t ring any bells. And I’ve been here a month. Waiting for assisted housing to free up. ‘Any day now,’ they tell me. Like it’s a UPS package and not a damn place to live.”
“She would have been here in the past day,” I say. “If she was here at all.”
“Name?”
“Her name is Ingrid.”
“I meant your name,” the woman says.
“Sorry. I’m Jules.”
She finally looks up from the photo and, with a gap-toothed smile, says, “Pretty name. I’m Bobbie. Not as pretty, I know. But it’s one of the few things that’s mine.”
She pats the space next to her, and I join her on the cot. “It’s nice to meet you, Bobbie.”
“Likewise, Jules.”
She plucks the phone from my hand to study the photo once more. “She a friend of yours?”
“More like an acquaintance.”
“Is she in trouble?”
I sigh. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If she is, I want to help her.”
Bobbie sizes me up. Polite suspicion. I can’t blame her. She’s probably encountered a lot of people with offers of help. Ones with strings attached. As for me, I suspect she sees a kindred spirit, because she says, “I’ll keep an eye out for her, if you want.”
“I’d appreciate that very much.”
“Can you send me the picture?”
“Sure.”
Bobbie gives me her phone number, and I text her the photo.
“I’ll save your number,” she says. “So I can call you if I run into her.”
I want her to do more than just call me. I want her to tell me about her life. About the chain of events that led her here. Because we have something in common, Bobbie and me. We’re just two women trying to get by as best we can.
“You say you’ve been here a month?” I say.
“That’s right.”
“And before that?”
Bobbie gives me another suspicious once-over. “Are you a social worker or something?”
“Just interested in your story,” I say. “If you’re interested in telling it.”
“There’s not much to tell, Jules. Shit happens. You know how it is.”
I nod. I know exactly how it is.
“My family was poor, you see. Welfare. Food stamps. All that stuff some folks are always trying to get rid of.” Bobbie huffs with annoyance. “As if we like depending on food stamps. As if we want that goddamn brick of orange cheese they give out. I told myself that when I grew up, I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. And I managed for a while. But then something unexpected happened, and I had to dig myself a little hole of debt to deal with it. Then to fill in that hole, I had to dig another, this one a little bigger. After a while, there were so many holes that I was bound to fall into one and not be able to get out. It’s hard. Life is hard. And too damn expensive.”
“Have you seen the price of oranges?” I say.
Bobbie laughs again. “Honey, the last time I had fresh fruit, Obama was still in office.”
“Well, I hope life gets easier for you very soon,” I say.
“Thanks,” Bobbie says brightly. “And I hope you find your friend. Doing good deeds—makes this rotten world just a little bit better.”
24
When I return to the Bartholomew at three o’clock, Charlie greets me outside, a dark look of concern in his eyes.
“Someone’s here to see you,” he says. “A young man. He’s been here awhile. After an hour, I told him he could wait inside.”
Charlie opens the door, and my stomach drops.
There, standing just inside the lobby, is Andrew.
His unexpected—and unwanted—presence makes me see red. Literally. For a second, my vision turns crimson, just like in that Hitchcock movie my dad made me watch once. Marnie, it was called. She saw flashes of red like I do now as I march through the door, a scowl on my face.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Andrew looks up from his phone. “You haven’t responded to my calls or texts.”
“So you just decided to show up?” A thought occurs to me, momentarily cutting through my anger. “How did you even know I was here?”
“I saw your picture in the paper,” Andrew says. “It took me a minute to realize it was you.”
“Because it’s an awful picture of me.”
“I always said you’re much prettier in person.”
Andrew flashes me his seductive grin. The one that made me weak-kneed when we first met. It’s a dazzling smile, and he knows it. I’m sure he used it on the co-ed he was fucking. One flash was probably all it took to lure her into our apartment and onto our couch.
Seeing the grin now leaves my body humming with rage. That’s something I’ve managed to push to the wayside the past two weeks, consumed as I was with worry. But now that he’s here, right in front of me, it comes roaring back.
“What the fuck do you want, Andrew?”
“To apologize. I truly hate the way we ended things.”
He takes a step toward me. I take several steps back, putting as much distance between us as possible. Soon I’m at the row of mailboxes and digging out the mail key.
“The way you ended things,” I say as I open the mailbox and peek inside, finding it empty. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re right. The way I treated you was awful. There’s no excuse for it.”
I slam the mailbox shut and turn around, seeing that Andrew has followed me. He stands about three feet away. Just out of punching range.
“You should have said all this two weeks ago,” I tell him. “But you didn’t. You could have apologized then. You could have begged me not to leave. But you didn’t even try.”
“Would that have changed your mind?” Andrew says.
“No.” Tears sting my eyes, which pisses me off. The last thing I want is for Andrew to see just how hurt I really am. “But it would have made me feel less stupid for being with you. It wouldn’t have made me feel so—”
Unloved.
That’s what I’m about to say but stop myself before the word can escape. I fear it will make me look as pathetic as I often feel.
“Were there others besides her?” I ask, even though it’s a pointless question. I’m certain there were. I’m also certain it doesn’t make any difference now.
“No,” Andrew says.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Honest.”
Despite his protests, it’s clear he’s lying. His eyes shift ever so slightly to the left. It’s his tell.
“How many?” I say.
Andrew shrugs, scratches the back of his head.
“Two or three.”
Which probably means there were more.
“I’m sorry about all of them,” Andrew says. “I never meant to hurt you, Jules. I need you to know that. They meant nothing to me. You did. I loved you. Truly. And now I’ve lost you forever.”
He moves in even closer and attempts to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. Another one of his surefire moves. He did it right before our first kiss.
I slap his hand away. “You should have thought about that earlier.”
“You’re right, I should have,” Andrew says. “And you have every reason to be angry and hurt. I just wanted to tell you that I regret everything. And that I’m sorry.”
He stands in place, as if waiting for something. I think he wants me to forgive him. I don’t plan on doing that anytime soon.
“Fine,” I say. “You’ve said your apologies. Now you can go.”
Andrew doesn’t budge.
“There’s something else,” he s
ays, growing quiet.
I cross my arms and huff. “What else could there possibly be?”
“I need—” Andrew looks around the lobby until he’s certain there’s no one else around. “I need money.”
I stare at him, stunned. When my legs start to buckle with anger, I try to cover it by taking a step backward.
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
“It’s for the rent,” he says, his voice a desperate whisper. “You don’t know how expensive that place is.”
“I actually do,” I shoot back, “seeing how I paid half that rent for a year.”
“And you lived there for a few days this month, which means you should give me at least a little money to cover that.”
“What makes you think I have any money to give?”
“Because you live here.” Andrew spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the grandiose lobby. “I don’t know what racket you’ve got going, Jules, but I’m impressed.”
Just then, Nick enters the lobby, looking particularly dashing in a fitted gray suit. Even better, he looks rich, which prompts Andrew to eye him with undisguised contempt. Seeing it makes me feel petty. Vindictively so. Which is why I rush to Nick and say, “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you!”
I pull him into a hug, whispering desperately into his ear, “Please go along with this.”
Then I kiss him. More than just a quick peck on the lips. It’s a kiss that lingers—long enough for me to feel the jealousy radiating from Andrew’s side of the lobby.
“Who’s this?” he says.
Nick, thankfully, continues the charade. Casually throwing an arm over my shoulder, he says, “I’m Nick. Are you a friend of Jules’s?”
“This is Andrew,” I say.
Nick steps forward to shake Andrew’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Andrew. I’d love to stay and chat, but Jules and I have an important thing to get to.”
“Yes,” I add. “Very important. I suggest you run along as well.”
Andrew hesitates a moment, his gaze switching between Nick and me. His expression is a mixture of insult and injury. I’d like to be the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy seeing him hurt. I’m not.