Lock Every Door

by Riley Sager

  “The door’s right there,” Nick says, pointing the way out. “In case you’re confused.”

  “Bye, Andrew.” I give him the weakest of waves. “Have a nice life.”

  With one last regretful look, Andrew slips out the door and, hopefully, out of my life. Once he’s gone, I pull away from Nick, humiliation burning my cheeks.

  “I am so sorry about that. I didn’t know what else to do. I needed him to leave and couldn’t think of a better way to make that happen.”

  “I think it worked,” Nick says while absently touching his lips. They’re probably still warm from our kiss. Mine certainly are. “I’m guessing Andrew is an ex-boyfriend?”

  We make our way to the elevator, cramming ourselves inside. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Nick, I’m exposed once again to his cologne. That woodsy, citrusy scent.

  “He is,” I say as we begin our ascent. “Unfortunately.”

  “It ended badly?”

  “That would be an understatement.” In the confines of the elevator, I realize how bitter I sound. I wouldn’t blame Nick for wanting to stay far away from me after this. No one likes bitter. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually this—”

  “Hurt?” Nick says.

  “Vindictive.”

  The elevator reaches the top floor. Nick moves the grate aside, allowing me to exit first. As we walk down the hall, he says, “I’m glad I ran into you. And not just because of the way you greeted me down in the lobby.”

  “Really?” I say, blushing anew.

  “I wanted to know if you’d heard back from Ingrid.”

  “Not a peep.”

  “That’s disappointing. I was hoping you had.”

  I could tell Nick about the gun. Or the note Ingrid left that I try not to think about, because thinking about it is too frightening.

  BE CAREFUL

  Instead, I don’t mention them, for the same reasons I didn’t tell Chloe. I don’t want Nick to think I’m being overly worried, even paranoid.

  “I know she’s not in the homeless shelter I just returned from visiting,” I say.

  “That was some smart thinking to look for her there, though.”

  “I can’t take credit. It was Greta Manville’s idea.”

  Nick’s brows lift in surprise. “Greta? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you are becoming friends.”

  “I think she just wants to help,” I say.

  We reach the end of the hallway, pausing in the wide space between the doors to our respective apartments.

  “I’d like to help, too,” Nick says.

  “But I thought you didn’t know Ingrid.”

  “I didn’t. Not very well. But I’m glad she has someone looking out for her.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of it,” I say.

  “Which gives me all the more reason to help,” Nick replies. “Seriously, if you need anything—anything at all—let me know. Especially if Andrew comes back.”

  He gives me a wink and heads to his apartment. I do the same, pausing in the foyer as soon as the door is closed behind me. I feel slightly dizzy, and not just because of Nick. The past twenty-four hours have been so strange it borders on the surreal. Ingrid going missing. The fire. Having lunch with Greta Manville. It’s so far from my normal existence that it feels like something Greta herself might have written.

  Chloe was right. It is indeed a strange, alternate universe I’ve stumbled into.

  I just hope it’s not also something else she told me: that it’s all probably too good to be true.

  25

  I spend the next two hours following Greta’s other suggestion and calling the information desks of every hospital in Manhattan. None of them are aware of an Ingrid Gallagher or a Jane Doe matching her description being admitted within the past twenty-four hours.

  I’m about to start on hospitals in the outer boroughs when there’s another knock on my door. It’s Charlie this time, standing in the hall with the largest flower arrangement I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so big that Charlie himself is practically invisible behind it. All I see of him is his cap peeking above the blooms.

  “Charlie, what will your wife think?”

  “Cut it out,” Charlie says, a blush in his voice. “They’re not from me. I’m just the deliveryman.”

  I gesture for him to set down the arrangement on the coffee table. As he does, I count at least three dozen blooms. Roses and lilies and snapdragons. Tucked among them is a card.

  Thank you for saving my beloved Rufus! You’re an absolute angel!—Marianne

  “I heard you were quite the hero last night,” Charlie says.

  “I was just being a good neighbor,” I say. “Speaking of which, how’s your daughter? One of the other doormen told me there was some sort of emergency.”

  “It was much ado about nothing. She’s fine now. But it’s nice of you to ask.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Still in college?”

  “She plans to go,” Charlie says quietly. “Hasn’t worked out quite yet.”

  “I’m sure it will.” I take a sniff of the flowers. They smell heavenly. “She’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

  Charlie drifts toward the door, seemingly unsure about whether to leave or not. But then he says, “I heard you were asking about that other apartment sitter. The one who left.”

  “Ingrid Gallagher. I’m trying to locate her.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “I haven’t heard from her since she left,” I say. “And I just want to know she’s okay. Did you ever talk to her?”

  “Not really,” Charlie says. “I’ve had more interaction with you in the past five minutes than with her the entire time she was here.”

  “Leslie told me you were the doorman on duty the night she left but that you never actually saw her leave.”

  “I didn’t. I had to step away from the door to deal with the security camera in the basement. There’s a bank of security monitors just off the lobby. It’s always a good idea to have another set of eyes watching the place.”

  “Is the footage saved?”

  “It’s not,” Charlie says, knowing exactly where my thoughts have headed. “Which is why it was necessary for me to check the monitor in the basement.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “It was disconnected. A wire in the back had come loose. The camera was still on, but all I saw on the monitor was a blank screen.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “About five minutes. It was an easy fix.”

  “Has a camera malfunction ever happened before?” I ask.

  “Not on my watch,” Charlie says.

  “When did you notice it was out?”

  “A little after one a.m.”

  My body freezes. That was around the same time I heard the scream and went to check on Ingrid. Five minutes later, she was gone. Which means Ingrid left immediately after I returned to 12A.

  The timing seems too convenient to be a coincidence. In fact, the camera being disconnected just as Ingrid left strikes me as being a distraction.

  My first thought is that Ingrid did it herself so that she could leave unnoticed—which would make little sense. There’s no rule requiring apartment sitters to remain at the Bartholomew if they don’t want to. And Charlie wouldn’t have stopped her. He probably would have hailed her a cab and wished her well.

  Besides, that would have required Ingrid to gather all her belongings, travel to the basement to disconnect the camera, then go back to the eleventh floor so she could then carry her things all the way down to the lobby. That’s a lot of work for something she was well within her right to do, and it surely would have taken more than five minutes. Especially if she arrived at the Barth
olomew with a lot of personal belongings.

  “Were you on duty when Ingrid moved in?” I say.

  Charlie nods.

  “How much did she have with her?”

  “I can’t really remember,” he says. “Two suitcases, I think. Plus a couple of boxes.”

  “Did you see anyone going to the basement before you realized the camera was out?”

  “I didn’t. I was outside, attending to another resident.”

  “At that hour? Who was it?”

  Charlie straightens his spine, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think Mrs. Evelyn will like that I’m telling you so much. I want to help, but—”

  “I know, I know. The building’s big on privacy. But Ingrid’s basically the same age as your daughter. If she were missing, you’d be asking a lot of questions, too.”

  “If my daughter was missing, I wouldn’t rest until I found her.”

  My father had said the same thing once. He meant it at the time. I’m sure of it. But that’s the thing about searching. It wears you down. Emotional erosion.

  “Don’t you think Ingrid deserves the same treatment?” I say. “You don’t have to tell me a name. Just give me a little hint.”

  Charlie sighs and looks past me to the flowers on the coffee table. A hint almost as massive as the bouquet itself.

  “She took the dog out a little before one,” Charlie says. “I was outside with her the entire time. You know, making sure nothing bad happened. That’s not the hour a woman should be on the street alone. Once Rufus did his business, we went back inside. She took the elevator to the seventh floor, and I peeked at the security monitors. That’s when I saw the camera in the basement was out.”

  This means Marianne was in the elevator at roughly the same time Ingrid supposedly left her apartment.

  “Thank you, Charlie.” I snap off a rosebud from the bouquet and place it in the button hole on his lapel. “You’ve been a huge help.”

  “Please don’t tell Mrs. Evelyn I said anything,” Charlie begs as he adjusts his makeshift boutonniere.

  “I won’t. I got the feeling from Leslie that it’s a sore subject around here.”

  “Considering the way Ingrid departed, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Evelyn regrets ever letting her stay here in the first place.”

  With a tip of his cap, Charlie opens the door to leave. Before he can make it all the way out of the apartment, I toss him one last question.

  “What apartment does Marianne Duncan live in?”

  “Why?”

  I flash him an innocent smile. “So I can send her a thank-you note, of course.”

  I’m certain Charlie doesn’t believe me. He looks away, gazing into the hallway. Still, he tosses an answer over his shoulder.

  “7A,” he says.

  26

  The seventh floor is as busy now as it was last night. Only instead of firefighters, it’s contractors moving through the smoke-stained halls. The door to Mr. Leonard’s apartment has been removed and now leans against a hallway wall stippled with smoke damage. Next to it is a section of kitchen counter, its surface covered with burn marks. On the floor, soot spreads across the tile like black mold.

  Blasting out of the apartment itself is a cacophony of construction noise. Emerging from the racket are two workers carrying a wooden cupboard with a charred door. They drop it next to the countertop. Before returning to the apartment, one of the workers looks my way and winks.

  I roll my eyes and move in the opposite direction, toward the front of the building. At 7A, I give two short raps on the door.

  Marianne answers in a rush of perfume-scented air that floats past me and mixes with the smoke smell still lingering in the hall.

  “Darling!” she says, pulling me in for a half hug and an air kiss on both cheeks. “I was hoping I’d see you today. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my Rufus.”

  I’m not surprised to see Marianne carrying Rufus in her arms. What is a surprise is that both of them are wearing hats. Hers is black with a wide, floppy brim tilted so that it casts a shadow over her entire face. His is a tiny top hat held in place with an elastic band.

  “I just stopped by to thank you for the flowers,” I say.

  “Don’t you just love them? Tell me you love them.”

  “They’re beautiful. But you really didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”

  “Of course I did. You were a complete angel last night. That’s what I’m going to start calling you. The Angel of St. Bart’s.”

  “And how’s Rufus doing?” I say. “All better after last night, I hope.”

  “He’s fine. Just a little scared. Isn’t that right, Rufus?”

  The dog nuzzles the crook of her arm, trying in vain to free himself of the tiny top hat. He stops when a sudden bang echoes up the hallway from 7C.

  “Horrible, isn’t it?” Marianne says of the noise. “It’s been like this all morning. I’m sorry about what happened to poor Mr. Leonard, and I wish him a speedy recovery. I truly do. But it’s quite an inconvenience for the rest of us.”

  “It’s been an eventful few days. What with the fire and that apartment sitter leaving so suddenly.”

  I hope the mention of Ingrid sounds less calculated to Marianne than it does to me. To my ears, it clangs with obviousness.

  “What apartment sitter?”

  Marianne’s face remains obscured by her hat, making her expression unreadable. She reminds me of a femme fatale from the film noirs my father used to watch on lazy Saturdays. Elegant and inscrutable.

  “Ingrid Gallagher. She was in 11A. Then two nights ago, she suddenly left without telling anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Marianne’s voice isn’t unkind. On the surface, her tone hasn’t changed. Yet I detect a slight cold streak running through her words. She’s now on guard.

  “I just assumed the two of you had met. After all, you were the first person I met after I arrived.” I offer her a shy smile. “You made me feel very welcome here.”

  Marianne peeks into the hallway, checking to see if anyone else is around. Only one other person is—a workman just outside Mr. Leonard’s door, blowing his nose into a red handkerchief.

  “I mean, I knew who she was,” Marianne says, her voice going so quiet it flirts with being a whisper. “And I knew that she left. But we weren’t formally introduced.”

  “So the two of you never spoke?”

  “Never. I think I saw her only a few times, when I was taking Rufus for his morning walk.”

  “I heard you and Rufus went to the lobby the night she left.” Again, it’s not the subtlest of transitions. But there’s no telling how long Marianne’s sharing mood is going to last. “Did you see or hear her go? Or maybe see someone else up and about at that hour?”

  “I—” Marianne stops herself, changing course. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Being here gives me déjà vu. Marianne has the same say-one-thing-mean-another demeanor Ingrid displayed the night she disappeared. When she answers me with a simple “Yes,” the word slides uncertainly off her tongue. She hears how it sounds and tries again, mustering more force. “Yes. I’m sure I saw nothing that night.”

  Marianne’s got one hand on the door now, her gloved fingers flexing against the wood. When she raises her other hand to the brim of her hat, I see that it’s trembling. She gives the hallway another up-and-down glance and says, “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

  “Marianne, wait—”

  She tries to close the door, but I desperately slide my foot against the frame, blocking it. I peer at her through the six-inch gap that remains.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Marianne?”

  “Please,” she hisses, her face still hidden in shadow. “Please stop asking questions. No one here is goin
g to answer them.”

  Marianne pushes the door against my foot, forcing me to pull it away. Then the door slams shut in another perfume-soaked rush. I stumble backward, suddenly aware of someone else in the hallway with me. Twisting away from Marianne’s door, I see Leslie Evelyn standing a few yards down the hall. She’s just returned from a yoga class. Lululemon tights. Rolled-up mat under her arm. Thin line of sweat sparkling along her hairline.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  “No,” I say, even though she clearly saw Marianne slam the door in my face. “No problem at all.”

  “Are you sure? Because it looks to me like you’re bothering one of the tenants, which you know is strictly against the rules.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Leslie silences me with a raised hand. “There aren’t exceptions to these rules. We thoroughly discussed them when you moved in.”

  “We did. I was just—”

  “Breaking them,” Leslie says. “Honestly, I expected more from you, Jules. You were such a well-behaved temporary tenant.”

  Her use of the past tense stops my heart a moment.

  “Are . . . are you kicking me out?”

  Leslie says nothing at first, making me wait for the answer. When it arrives—“No, Jules, I’m not”—I let out a grateful sigh.

  “Normally I would,” she adds. “But I’m taking your past behavior into account. I saw how you helped both Greta and Rufus get out of the building last night. So did the newspapers, apparently. I’d be a cruel person if I made you leave after such a good deed. But what I am is strict. So if I see you bothering Marianne, or any of the residents, again—about anything—I’m afraid you’ll have to go. Apartment sitters who don’t follow the rules seldom get a second chance. And they never get a third.”

  “I understand,” I say. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I still haven’t heard from Ingrid, and I’m worried something bad happened.”

  “Nothing bad happened to her,” Leslie says. “At least not within these walls. She left willingly.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”