by Riley Sager
“Because I was in her apartment. There were no signs of a struggle. Nor was anything left behind.”
Only she’s wrong about that. Ingrid did leave without something—a Glock that’s now stowed under the kitchen sink in 12A. Which means Leslie could also be wrong about Ingrid not leaving other things behind. Even though she didn’t arrive with much—two suitcases and a couple of boxes, according to Charlie—it was more than what Ingrid could handle on her own. It would take me at least three trips to move my own meager belongings from 12A.
I apologize to Leslie once more and hurry away, suddenly seized with the idea that some of Ingrid’s things could still be in 11A. Shoved in the back of a closet. Under a bed. Someplace where Leslie wouldn’t immediately notice them. And among those possibly hidden items could be something indicating not only where Ingrid went but who she was running from.
I won’t know with certainty unless I look for myself. Not an easy task. I can think of only one other way inside, and even that requires the help of someone else. Adding to the difficulty is that it needs to be done quickly and quietly.
Because now I have another, unexpected worry to contend with.
Leslie is watching my every move.
27
I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Nick says.
“You said you wanted to help.”
The two of us are in the kitchen of 12A, standing shoulder to shoulder as we stare into the open dumbwaiter. Nick scratches the back of his neck, charmingly uncertain.
“This,” he says, “isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“You know of a better way to get into Ingrid’s apartment?”
“You could—and I know this might sound crazy—just ask Leslie to let you in. She’s got a key.”
“I’m on her bad side at the moment. She says I was bothering Marianne Duncan.”
“And were you?”
I give him a quick rundown of the past hour, from Charlie’s flower delivery to Marianne’s skittishness to the idea that 11A might still contain some kind of clue regarding what happened to Ingrid.
“With Leslie highly unlikely to cooperate, it’s the dumbwaiter or nothing,” I say. “You lower me down, I take a look around, you pull me back up.”
Nick continues to eye the dumbwaiter with skepticism. “There are, like, a hundred ways in which your plan can go wrong.”
“Name one.”
“I could drop you.”
“I’m not that heavy, and you’re not that weak,” I counter. “Besides, it’s only one floor down.”
“Which is far enough to cause serious damage if you fall,” Nick says. “Trust me, Jules, this isn’t something you should take lightly, even though your bravery is admirable.”
I’m not brave. I’m in a hurry. I remember those cops who chastised my family for waiting so long after Jane vanished. They stressed that every minute counts. It’s now been more than forty hours since Ingrid disappeared. The clock is ticking.
“I do trust you. Which is why I asked you to help me with this. Please, Nick. Just a quick look. Down and back.”
“Down and back,” he says, reaching for the dumbwaiter rope and giving it a tug to test its strength. “How much time do you plan on spending between those two steps?”
“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“And you really think this could help you locate Ingrid?”
“I’ve tried everything else,” I say. “I called hospitals. I went to a homeless shelter. I’ve asked around as much as I could. I’m running out of options here.”
“But what do you expect to find?”
I know what I don’t expect—another gun, or an even more alarming note written on the back of a poem. But something less sinister and more useful could be lying among the tasteful furnishings of 11A.
“Hopefully something that might hint at where Ingrid has gone,” I say. “A piece of mail. An address book.”
I’m grasping at straws, I know. Not to mention ignoring the likelihood that nothing belonging to Ingrid remains in that apartment. But if something is there, finding it could finally help me locate her, which would put all my questions—and worries—to rest.
“I told you I’d help, so I will,” Nick says, shaking his head, as if he can’t quite believe he’s agreed to this. “What’s the plan?”
The plan is for me to climb into the dumbwaiter with my phone and a flashlight. Nick will then lower me into 11A. As soon as I’m out, he’ll raise it back to 12A, just in case Leslie keeps tabs on this kind of thing.
I’ll then search the apartment while Nick keeps watch on the stairwell landing between the eleventh and twelfth floors. If it looks like someone is approaching, he’ll alert me with a text. I’ll then leave immediately, using the door, making sure it locks behind me.
We hit our first hurdle as soon as I try to climb into the dumbwaiter. It’s a tight fit, made possible only by curling into a fetal position. The dumbwaiter itself starts groaning and creaking as soon as I’m inside, and for a fraught, fearful moment I think it’s going to collapse under my weight. When it doesn’t, I give Nick a nervous nod.
“We’re good,” I say.
Nick doesn’t look as optimistic. “You sure you want to go through with this?”
I nod again. I don’t have any other choice.
Nick gives the rope a tug, freeing it from the locking mechanism on the pulleys above. The dumbwaiter immediately drops several inches. Startled, I let out a whimpered half shriek, prompting Nick to say, “Everything’s okay. I’ve still got you.”
“I know,” I say.
Even so, I grip the twin strands of rope running through the dumbwaiter. They’re on the move, sliding through my clenched fists. One goes up, the other down, reminding me of the cables of the Bartholomew’s elevator. I descend farther, the bottom of the cupboard level with my thighs, then my chest, then my shoulders. When it reaches eye level, only a two-inch gap remains. Looking through it, all I can see of Nick is his shirt coming untucked from his jeans as he continues to lower me.
He gives the rope another heave and the gap closes completely, plunging me into darkness.
Only once I’m cut off from Nick and the rest of 12A do I begin to ponder the foolishness of my plan. Nick was right. This is not a good idea. I’m literally inside the walls of the Bartholomew. Any number of bad things could happen.
The rope could snap, sending me falling like a sack of garbage into a dumpster.
The bottom of the dumbwaiter could fall away—a serious possibility, I think, now that it’s started creaking and groaning again.
Worse is the idea that it could get stuck, leaving me trapped in a dark limbo between floors. The very thought floods me with claustrophobia so overwhelming I become convinced the dumbwaiter is getting smaller, shrinking ever so slightly, forcing me into a tighter ball.
I flick on the flashlight. A terrible idea. In the sudden glow, the dumbwaiter’s walls remind me of the inside of a coffin. It certainly has the feel of one. Dark. Confining. Buried.
I turn off the light. Thrust once more into darkness, I notice the sudden lack of noise around me.
The creaks and groans of the dumbwaiter no longer exist.
When I grab the ropes again, I find them motionless.
The dumbwaiter has stopped.
I’m trapped. That’s my first thought. Just like I feared. I nudge the walls with my shoulders, certain there’s less room now than there was a few seconds ago.
But then my phone lights up, filling the dumbwaiter with an ice-blue glow.
A text from Nick.
You’re lowered.
I elbow the wall to my left, realizing it’s not a wall at all.
It’s a door.
A cupboard door, to be precise. One that slides upward just like its twin in 12A.
That I neve
r considered the likelihood the door would be closed shows just how little I’ve thought this whole thing through. By bending my arm and using the flat of my left hand, I manage to raise it just a crack. I then slide my left foot underneath the door to keep it from falling. After contorting my body in ways I’m sure I’ll regret later, I’m able to lift the door completely and slide out of the dumbwaiter.
In the darkened kitchen of 11A, I take a moment to stretch, my joints popping. I then text Nick back.
I’m in.
Two seconds later, the dumbwaiter begins to move. Watching its rise, I again question the wisdom of coming down here. So much so that I’m tempted to hop in and let Nick haul me back to the safety of 12A. I ask myself what I truly expect to find here. The answer, if I’m being completely honest, is nothing. Which means I’m risking a lot to be here. If Leslie should suddenly barge in, there goes my twelve thousand dollars and that reset button I so desperately need to press.
But unlike me, Nick isn’t wasting any time. The dumbwaiter has already been lifted out of view, leaving me no choice but to close the cupboard door and turn on the flashlight.
There’s no turning back now. I’m in 11A. Time to start searching.
I begin in the kitchen, shining the flashlight into every cupboard and drawer, finding the usual assortment of pots, bowls, and utensils. Nothing looks out of place. Nor does anything look like it once belonged to Ingrid.
The phone brightens in my hand. Another text from Nick.
On the landing now. All is clear.
I continue the search, going through the hallway, the living room, and the study, all of which follow the same layout as 12A. There’s even a desk and bookshelf in the study, although they’re as devoid of information as the ones directly above them. The desk is empty. The bookshelf mostly is, too, save for a few John Grisham hardcovers and a phone book–thick biography of Alexander Hamilton.
It dawns on me that I have no idea why 11A is vacant. Ingrid never got the chance to mention a previous owner dying or a current resident being gone for an extended period of time. I suppose it could be either of those reasons, although neither would explain why the place looks so uninhabited. I get the feeling I had when peeking inside right after Leslie told me Ingrid had left. That the place seemed less like an apartment than a facsimile of one. Cold, quiet, tasteful to the point of blandness.
I move to the other side of the apartment, the one that doesn’t follow the same layout as mine. Where 12A stops at the corner of the Bartholomew, 11A continues down the building’s northern side. Here I find a bathroom, glowing white in the flashlight’s beam, and two small bedrooms across the hall from each other.
At the end of the hall is the door to the master bedroom. While not as grand as the one on the second level of 12A, it’s still impressive. There’s a king bed, an eighty-inch flat-screen TV, a master bath, and a walk-in closet. That’s where I go first, aiming the flashlight over bare carpet, empty shelves, dozens of wooden hangers holding nothing.
I go to the bathroom next, finding it equally as empty. The cabinets under the sink are bare. In the closet, towels line the shelves, neatly folded.
As I head back into the main bedroom, my phone lights up.
You’ve been in there awhile, Nick texts. Everything OK?
I note the time glowing at the top of the screen. I’ve been down here for fifteen minutes. Far longer than I intended.
Finishing up, I text, even though what I should be doing is leaving. There’s clearly nothing of Ingrid’s left in this apartment. I haven’t seen a single box or suitcase or even a remnant that she was ever here at all. But I also don’t want to leave without checking every square inch of the place. It took too much effort to get here once. I doubt I’ll be able to do it again.
I do a quick check under the bed, sweeping the flashlight back and forth across the carpet.
Nothing.
I go to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.
Nothing.
I then check the one on the right.
Something.
A book, resting like a hotel room Bible at the bottom of an otherwise empty drawer.
A new text arrives from Nick. Someone’s in the elevator. It’s moving.
I text back. Up?
Yes.
I aim the flashlight at the book in the drawer. Heart of a Dreamer. I’d recognize that cover anywhere. When I pick it up, I find a bookmark with a red tassel tucked among its pages.
I’ve seen this book—and bookmark—before. In a photo Ingrid posted on Instagram. The same post with the caption boasting how she had met Greta Manville.
This was Ingrid’s copy.
I’ve finally found something else she left behind.
I slide the bookmark from its place and see that nothing about it is personalized. It’s as generic as can be. Just an illustration of a cat curled up on a blanket. Ones just like it are sold in every bookstore in America.
My phone glows three times in quick succession, brightening the room like lightning flashes as I start to flip backward through the book, checking for scraps of paper tucked among the pages or notes in the margins. There’s nothing until I get to the title page, which bears an inscription written in large, looping letters.
Darling Ingrid,
Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!
Best wishes,
Greta Manville
My phone lights up again, forcing me to finally check it. I see four missed texts from Nick, each one more frightening than the last.
Elevator stopped on 11.
It’s Leslie! Someone’s with her.
They’re heading to 11A!!
The last text, sent mere seconds ago, makes my heart rattle.
HIDE
I drop the book back into the nightstand drawer and push it shut. Then I rush to the hallway just in time to hear the sound of a key turning a lock, the door opening, and, finally, the voice of Leslie Evelyn filling the apartment.
“Here we are, sweetie: 11A.”
28
Leslie and her guest are roaming 11A, their voices low, conversational. So far, they’ve stayed on the other side of the apartment. The study. The sitting room. Right now they’re in the kitchen, Leslie saying something I can’t quite make out.
I remain in the master bedroom, where I’ve stuffed myself beneath the bed. I lie on my stomach, the phone shoved under me to block the glow if Nick texts again. I keep my mouth clamped shut, breathing through my nose because it’s quieter that way.
Outside the bedroom, Leslie’s voice gets louder, clearer. I can now make out what she’s saying, which means she’s left the kitchen and is getting closer.
“This is one of the Bartholomew’s nicest units,” she says. “They’re all nice, of course. But this one is extra special.”
The person with her is a woman, young and chipper. At least, she’s trying to be. I notice a quiver of nervousness in her voice when she says, “It’s such an amazing apartment.”
“It is,” Leslie agrees. “Which means staying here is also a big responsibility. We need someone who’ll truly watch over the place.”
Ah, so this is an interview for Ingrid’s replacement. Leslie wasted no time. It also explains the girl’s nervousness. She’s trying hard to impress.
“Back to the questions,” Leslie says. “What’s your current employment situation?”
“I’m an actress,” the girl says. “I’m waiting tables part time until I get my big break.”
She lets out a nervous chuckle, making light of the idea, as if she doesn’t even believe it. I feel bad for her. I’d feel worse if I wasn’t hiding in fear, watching their shadows glide along the hallway wall. A moment later they’re in the bedroom, Leslie flicking on the overhead light. Like an insect, I shrink farther under the bed.
“Do you smoke?” Leslie
asks.
“Only if a role requires it.”
“Drink?”
“Not really,” the girl replies. “I’m not legal yet.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in a month.”
They cross the room.
Then approach the bed.
Then stop so close that I can see their shoes. Black pumps for Leslie. Scuffed Keds for the girl. I hold my breath, covering my nose and mouth with my hand for good measure, afraid to make the slightest noise. Even so, my heart pounds so loud in my chest that I’m certain they could hear it if they stopped talking long enough to listen. Thankfully, they don’t.
“What’s your relationship status?” Leslie asks. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“I, um, have a boyfriend.” The girl sounds thrown by the question. “Will that be a problem?”
“For you, yes,” Leslie says. “There are certain rules that temporary tenants must follow. One of them is no visitors.”
Leslie walks toward the master bath, her pumps vanishing from my field of vision. The girl in the Keds stays a moment longer before reluctantly following her.
“Ever?” she says.
“Ever,” Leslie replies from inside the bathroom, the tile giving her voice a watery echo. “Another rule is no nights spent away from the apartment. So if you’re approved to stay here, I’m afraid you won’t be seeing very much of your boyfriend.”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” she says.
“I’ve heard that before.”
Leslie returns to the foot of the bed, her black pumps mere inches from my face. They’re spotless—so polished that I can see my warped reflection in the gleaming leather.
“Tell me about your family,” she says. “Any next of kin?”
“My parents live in Maryland. Same with my younger sister. She wants to be an actress, too.”
“How lovely for your parents.” Leslie pauses. “That’s all the questions I have. Shall we return to the lobby?”