by Riley Sager
“Um, sure,” the girl says. “Did I get the job?”
“We’ll give you a call in a few days to let you know.”
They both leave the bedroom, Leslie flicking off the lights on her way out. Soon I hear the front door close and the key click in the lock.
Even though they’re now gone, I wait before moving.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
When I do start to move, it’s just enough to slide my phone out from under me and check for a text from Nick.
It arrives thirty seconds later.
They’re in the elevator.
I crawl out from under the bed and move into the hall on tiptoes, still too frightened to make much noise. At the door, I undo the lock and peek outside, making sure they’re really gone. Seeing no one, I lock the door again, close it behind me, and sprint to the staircase.
Nick is still on the landing, his expression changing from fraught to overjoyed when he sees me running up the first set of steps.
“That was nerve-racking,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
My heart continues to hammer in my chest, making me light-headed. I think the dizziness is from shock that I wasn’t caught and immediately booted from the Bartholomew. Or maybe it’s because of the way Nick is gripping my hand, his palm hot as he quickly pulls me up the steps to the twelfth-floor landing.
We head straight to his apartment—running, giggling, shushing, both of us riding the high of getting away with something we shouldn’t have been doing. Inside, Nick leans against the door, his chest heaving. “Did we just do that?”
I’m also out of breath, answering in huffs. “I . . . think . . . we did.”
“Holy shit, we just did that!”
Nick, his hand still holding mine, pulls me into a giddy embrace. His body is warm. His heart beats as fast as mine. Adrenaline leaps off him like an electrical current, passing straight into me until I’m so dizzy the room spins.
I look into Nick’s eyes, hoping that will steady me. Instead, I only feel increasingly unmoored. But it’s not a bad sensation. Far from it. Caught in a wave of euphoria, I press myself against him until our faces are inches apart.
Then I kiss him.
A quick, impromptu peck that makes me instantly recoil in shame.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Nick stares at me, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Why?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Did you not want to kiss me?”
“I did. It’s just—I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”
“Try it again and see.”
I take a breath.
I lean in.
I kiss Nick again. Slowly this time. Anxiously. I haven’t kissed anyone but Andrew for a very long time, and a silly, girlish part of me worries I’ve forgotten how. I haven’t, of course. It’s just as swooningly delicious as I remember.
It helps that Nick’s an amazing kisser. An expert. I willingly lose myself in the sensation of his lips on mine, his heart thundering beneath my palm, his hand on the small of my back.
The two of us say nothing as we move down the hallway on swaying legs, kissing against one wall before breaking away and reconnecting a few steps later. I follow him up the spiral steps to his bedroom, his white-hot hand brushing mine.
I pause for a moment at the top of the steps, a meek voice in the back of my brain telling me this is all happening too quickly. I have other things to worry about. Finding Ingrid. Finding a job. Finding some way to gain control of my life.
But then Nick kisses me again.
On my lips.
On my earlobe.
On the nape of my neck as he starts to undress me.
When my clothes fall away, all my worries go with them.
Relieved of them, I let Nick take me by the hand and guide me to his bed.
NOW
Dr. Wagner stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I don’t. Mostly because I understand that I am starting to sound crazy.
I absolutely cannot sound crazy.
Not to the doctor. Not to the police, when it’s time for the inevitable interrogation. Not to anyone, lest they think I’m the slightest bit unstable and therefore refuse to believe me.
They have to believe me.
“You suggested the Bartholomew was haunted,” Dr. Wagner says, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling. “I’ve always heard those rumors. Urban legends and whatnot. But I also heard all of that was ancient history.”
“History can repeat itself,” I say.
The doctor’s left eyebrow rises, cresting the frame of his glasses. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes. I met a girl on my first day at the Bartholomew. She later disappeared.”
I sound calmer now, even though on the inside I’m at full panic. My pulse thrums and my eyelids twitch and more sweat pools inside the brace at my neck.
But I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t talk faster.
If I edge even the tiniest bit toward hysteria, this conversation will be over. I learned that when I talked to the 911 operator.
“She was there one day, gone the next. It was almost as if she had died.”
I pause, giving the statement enough time to settle over Dr. Wagner. When it does, he says, “It sounds to me like you think someone at the Bartholomew was murdered.”
“I do,” I say, before adding the stinger. “Several people.”
TWO DAYS EARLIER
29
When I wake, it’s not George I see outside the window but a different gargoyle. His twin. The one that occupies the south-facing corner. I eye him with suspicion, on the verge of asking him what he did with George.
But then I realize I’m not alone.
Nick is asleep beside me, his face buried in a pillow, his broad back rising and falling.
Which explains the different gargoyle.
And the very different bedroom, which I’m just now noticing.
The previous night comes roaring back. The mad dash from 11A. Kissing downstairs. Then kissing upstairs. Then doing a lot more upstairs. Things I haven’t done since before Andrew and I moved in together and sex became routine rather than exciting.
But last night? That was exciting. And so unlike me.
I sit up to check the clock on the nightstand.
Ten minutes after seven.
I spent the entire night here and not in 12A. Yet another Bartholomew rule I’ve broken.
I slip out of bed naked, shivering in the morning chill and feeling suddenly shy. The old me, who went AWOL last night, is returning with a vengeance. I gather my clothes quietly, trying not to wake Nick until after I’m dressed.
No such luck. I’ve barely slipped on my panties when his voice rises from the bed.
“Are you leaving?”
“Sorry, yeah. I need to go.”
Nick sits up. “You sure? I was going to make you pancakes.”
Rather than attempt to put on my bra with Nick watching, I simply toss it with my shoes before pulling on my blouse.
“Maybe another time.”
“Hey,” Nick says. “Why the rush?”
I gesture to the clock. “I didn’t spend the night in 12A. I broke one of Leslie’s rules.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Seriously, don’t sweat it. The rules are just there to make sure apartment sitters realize this is a serious job.”
Nick gets out of bed, displaying none of my shyness. He moves to the window and stretches, showing off a body so beautiful my knees go weak. I have another of those I-can’t-believe-this-is-real moments that have happened since I moved into the Bartholomew.
Nick toes a pair of plaid boxers on the floor, deems them acceptable, and slides them on. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m worried about losing twelve thousand dollars.”
I step into my jeans and give him a quick, close-mouthed kiss, hoping he can’t detect my morning breath. Then, with my shoes and bra in hand, I scamper barefoot down the stairs.
“I had a great time,” he says as he trails behind me.
“I did, too.”
“I’d like to do it again sometime. Any of it.” He flashes a grin the devil would envy. “Or all of it.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Me, too. But not now.”
Nick grips my arm, not letting me leave just yet. “Hey, I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in 11A? I meant to ask last night, but—”
“I didn’t give you a chance,” I say.
“I was all too happy to be distracted,” Nick says.
“I found a book. Heart of a Dreamer.”
“Not surprising. Copies of that are everywhere in this building. Are you sure it was Ingrid’s?”
“Her name was in it,” I say. “Greta signed it for her.”
I’d love to tell Nick more. That I’m surprised Greta never mentioned it during our conversations about Ingrid. That I’m worried she’s suffering from more than just her sudden sleeps. But I also really, really want to get back to 12A, just in case Leslie Evelyn decides to drop by. After last night, I now expect to see her at every inopportune moment.
“We’ll talk later,” I say. “Promise.”
I give him one last kiss and then rush into the hallway. My first walk of shame. Chloe would say it’s about goddamn time, even though I wouldn’t have minded going through life without this particular trek. At least it’s a short one—a barefoot dash from 12B to 12A.
Once inside, I drop my bra and shoes on the foyer floor and toss my keys toward the bowl. But my aim is off yet again, and the keys end up not just on the floor with everything else but on the heating vent, where they skitter, slide, and drop right through.
Fuck.
Wearily, I head to the kitchen, tripping over a rogue shoe in the process. Since I don’t have one of those handy magnet sticks Charlie used, I search the junk drawer for a screwdriver. I end up finding three. I grab all of them, plus a penlight that’s also in the drawer.
While I unscrew the grate, I think about Nick. Mostly I think about what he thinks of me. That I’m easy? Desperate? For money, yes, but not affection. Last night was an anomaly, spurred on by adrenaline and fear and, yes, desire.
I harbor no illusions that Nick and I are going to fall in love, get married, and live out our days on the top floor of the Bartholomew. That only happens in fairy tales and Greta Manville’s book. I’m no Ginny. Nor am I Cinderella. In less than three months, that clock’s going to strike midnight, and it’ll be back to reality for me.
Not that I’m far from it. Lying on the floor in yesterday’s clothes while reeking of sex is pretty damn real.
But I’m pleased to see that Charlie was right about the grate being easy to remove. I loosen the screws and remove the covering without a problem. The biggest issue comes from the penlight, which flickers until I give it a few good whacks against my palm.
Once it’s working properly, I aim it into the vent itself and immediately spot the keys. Surrounding them are other items that have fallen in and been forgotten. Two buttons. A rubber band. A dangly earring that must have been cheap if whoever lived here couldn’t be bothered to fish it out.
I grab the keys and leave everything else. Before replacing the grate, I sweep the light across the bottom of the vent, just in case something more valuable has fallen in there. Like cash. A girl’s allowed to dream.
Seeing nothing of value, I’m about to turn off the penlight when it catches the edge of something shiny wedged in the corner of the vent. I steady the light and move in for a closer look. Although not cash, it’s something just as unexpected.
A cell phone.
Even though Charlie told me it’s happened before, I’m still surprised to find a phone at the bottom of the vent. I can understand not bothering to retrieve a cheap earring. But not even someone rich enough to live at the Bartholomew would just abandon their cell phone.
I grab the phone and turn it over in my hands. Although the screen is slightly scratched, it appears to be in good condition. When I try to turn it on, nothing happens, surely because the battery is dead. It might have been down there for months.
This phone is the same brand as mine. Although the one I have is older, my charger fits it all the same. I go upstairs and plug it into the phone, hoping that after it charges I’ll be able to figure out who it belongs to and eventually return it.
While the phone charges, I replace the grate over the vent and then take a shower. Freshly scrubbed and dressed, I return to the phone and see it now has just enough juice to be turned on. When I do, the phone brightens in my hands. Filling the screen is a photograph, presumably of its owner.
Pale face. Almond-shaped eyes. Brown hair in unruly curls.
I swipe a finger across the screen, seeing that the phone itself is locked—a security feature also in use on mine. Without a passcode to unlock it, there’s no way of knowing whose phone this is. Or was, seeing how they simply abandoned it in a heating vent.
I swipe back to the first screen, staring again at the woman pictured on it. A realization bubbles up from the deep well of my memory.
I’ve seen this woman before.
Not in person, but in a different picture. Just a few days ago.
In an instant I’m out of 12A and inside the elevator, which shuttles me to the lobby with its typically excruciating slowness. Outside the Bartholomew, I pass a doorman who isn’t Charlie and make a right.
The sidewalk is filled with the usual mix of joggers, dog walkers, and people trudging to work. I pass them all, practically running down the sidewalk until I’m two blocks from the Bartholomew. There, at the corner streetlamp, is a piece of paper hanging on by its last bit of tape.
In the dead center of the page is a photograph of the woman whose phone I found. Same eyes. Same hair. Same china-doll skin.
Above the photo is that red-lettered word that so repelled me the first time I saw the flier.
MISSING
Beneath it is the woman’s name.
One I also recognize.
Erica Mitchell.
The apartment sitter who was in 12A before me.
30
I slap the flier flat against the kitchen counter and stare at it, my heart buzzing.
Erica and Ingrid.
Both were apartment sitters at the Bartholomew.
Both are now missing.
That can’t be a coincidence.
I take a deep breath and reread the flier. At the top is that awful word spelled out in gaudy red.
MISSING
Below it is the photo of Erica Mitchell, who reminds me more of myself than of Ingrid. We have a similar look. Friendly yet wary. Pretty but not very memorable.
Both of us also occupied 12A. Mustn’t forget that.
Running next to the photo is a list of vital statistics.
Name: Erica Mitchell
Age: 22
Hair: Brown
Height: 5’1”
Weight: 110 lbs.
Last seen: October 4
That was twelve days ago. Just a few days after Ingrid moved into the Bartholomew.
At the bottom of the page, also in red, is a number to call if anyone has information regarding Erica’s whereabouts.
My parents did the same thing for Jane. Our phone rang a lot those first few weeks. One of my parent
s always answered, no matter how late it was. But the callers were cranks or desperately lonely or kids daring each other to call a missing girl’s number.
I grab my phone and dial. I have no doubt that whoever put up that flier will be very interested to know I found Erica’s phone.
The call is answered by a man with a distinctly familiar voice.
“This is Dylan.”
I pause, surprise rendering me temporarily mute.
“Dylan the apartment sitter at the Bartholomew?”
Now it’s his turn to pause, a good two seconds broken by a suspicious, “Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Jules,” I say. “Jules Larsen. In 12A.”
“I know who you are. How did you get my number?”
“From the missing poster for Erica Mitchell.”
The line goes dead. Another surprise.
Dylan has ended the call.
I’m about to call back when the phone buzzes in my hand.
A text from Dylan.
We can’t talk about Erica. Not here.
I text him back. Why not?
Several seconds pass before a series of rippling blue dots appears on the screen. Dylan is typing.
Someone might hear us.
I’m alone.
Do you know that for certain?
I start to type my reply—something along the lines of Paranoid much?—but Dylan beats me to the punch.
I’m not being paranoid. Just cautious.
Why are you looking for Erica? I type.
Why are you calling about her?
Because I found her phone.
My own phone rings suddenly. It’s Dylan calling, likely too shocked to text.
“Where did you find it?” he says as soon as I answer.
“In a heating vent in the floor.”
“I want to see it,” Dylan says. “But not here.”
“Then where?”
He gives it only a moment’s thought. “Museum of Natural History. Meet me at the elephants at noon. Come alone, and don’t tell anyone about this.”