Lock Every Door

by Riley Sager

  I keep moving away from her until I’m on the other side of the bathroom, sinking into an open stall and dropping onto the toilet seat. Ingrid rushes toward me and drops to her knees.

  “I’m so sorry, Juju,” she says. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”

  A bubble of anger rises in my chest, hot and bilious. But it’s not directed at Ingrid. I can’t blame her for what she did. She was broke and desperate and saw an easy way to make a lot of money. If our roles were reversed, I might have done the same thing, no questions asked.

  No, my anger is reserved for Leslie and everyone else in the Bartholomew for exploiting that desperation and turning it into a weapon.

  “You’re forgiven,” I tell Ingrid. “You did what you needed to do to survive.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. “No, I’m a shitty person. Truly awful. And right after it happened, I decided I needed to leave. Five thousand dollars was more than enough for me. I didn’t want to stay there and see how much lower I could sink.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all of this that day in the park?”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  The answer is no. I would have thought she was lying. Or, worse, deeply disturbed. Because no one in their right mind would believe there was a group of Satanists occupying a building like the Bartholomew. That, of course, is how they managed to go undetected for so long. The preposterousness of their existence is like a shield, deflecting all suspicion.

  “And you certainly wouldn’t have forgiven me for hurting you like that,” Ingrid says. “In my mind, the best thing I could do was try to warn you by giving you some idea about what was going on there. I hoped it would, I don’t know, scare you enough to leave. Or at least make you think twice about staying.”

  “Which it did,” I say. “But does this mean you really did run away?”

  “Yes, but not the way I wanted to,” Ingrid says, talking so fast now that I can barely keep up. “That night, I was all packed and ready to leave. I put that note in the dumbwaiter, trying to do everything I could to get you to leave. I left the gun for the same reason. Just in case, God forbid, you needed to use it. I didn’t leave immediately, because Leslie told me she’d be by at some point in the night to give me the five thousand dollars I was promised. Also, I had arranged to tell Dylan everything I knew, just in case it could help him find out what happened to Erica. My plan was to get the cash from Leslie, meet Dylan in the basement, grab my things, and give the keys to Charlie on the way out. That didn’t happen, obviously.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “They came for me,” Ingrid says. “Well, he did.”

  My thoughts flash back to that video of Erica.

  It’s him.

  “Nick,” I say.

  Ingrid shudders at the name. “All of a sudden, he was there.”

  “At the door?”

  “No,” she says. “Inside the apartment. I don’t know how he got in. The door was locked. But there he was. I think he had been there for hours. Hiding. Waiting. But the moment I saw him, I knew I was in danger. He looked mean. Like, truly scary.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “That I shouldn’t struggle.”

  Ingrid pauses, and I suspect she’s replaying that moment in her head the same way I saw our collision in the Bartholomew’s lobby. She starts shaking again. Not just her hands, but her entire body—an uncontrollable tremble. Tears pool in her eyes as she croaks out a single, mournful sob.

  “He told me it would be easier that way,” she says as the tears break free and stream down her cheeks. “And I knew . . . I knew that he was planning to kill me. He had a weapon with him. A stun gun. I screamed when I saw it.”

  And I heard that scream as I stood in the kitchen of 12A. Which means others probably heard it, too. Including Greta, who lives directly below that apartment. I suspect no one said anything because they knew what was happening.

  Ingrid was being led to slaughter.

  “How did you get away?”

  “You saved me.” Ingrid wipes her eyes and gives me a warm, grateful smile. “When you came to the door.”

  “Nick was there?”

  “Right behind me,” Ingrid says. “I didn’t want to answer the door, but when we heard it was you, Nick told me I had to open it or you’d get suspicious. He had the stun gun pressed against my back the entire time, just in case I tried to warn you. He told me he’d paralyze us—me then you.”

  That explains everything. Why it took Ingrid so long to open the door. Twenty seconds, by my count. Why she had opened it only a crack. Why she wore that obviously fake smile and told me she was fine.

  “I knew something was wrong,” I say, surprised by my own tears, which spring forth suddenly now that Ingrid’s have stopped. “I wanted to help you.”

  “But you did, Jules. I had pepper spray in my pocket. A tiny bottle attached to my key ring. Nick appeared so fast I didn’t have time to reach for it. Then you came to my door. And you talked to me just long enough for me to reach into my pocket and grab it.”

  I remember that vividly. The way her right hand had been plunged into the pocket of her jeans, grasping for something.

  “After you left, I begged him not to hurt you,” Ingrid says. “Then I hit him with the pepper spray. After that, I ran. I didn’t take anything with me. There wasn’t any time. I had to leave everything behind. My phone. My clothes. Money. The only thing I had were the keys, which I threw onto the lobby floor because I knew I wouldn’t be able to come back.”

  The locker room door opens, and Bobbie pokes her head inside.

  “Ladies, you’re going to need to wrap this up,” she says. “I can’t stay out here all night. It’s getting packed out here, and someone’s going to take my cot if I’m not in it soon.”

  Ingrid and I make our way out of the locker room into a shelter even more crowded than when we left it. Bobbie is right. All the cots have now been claimed. Many are occupied by people sleeping or reading or just staring off in silence. A few serve as makeshift social hubs, where groups of women sit in clusters to laugh and converse. It’s a loud and bustling place, which makes me understand why Ingrid stuck to bus and train stations. There’s safety in numbers.

  For the two of us.

  But there’s still one apartment sitter left at the Bartholomew. And he’s all alone.

  That realization prompts another thought. One so awful it makes my heart beat like a snare drum in my chest.

  I pull out my phone and swipe through my search history, returning to the lunar calendar I looked at earlier.

  I type in this month.

  I type in this year.

  When the results appear, I gasp so loud it makes others in the shelter stop and stare. Ingrid and Bobbie close in around me, concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” Ingrid says.

  “I need to go.” I pull away from them, heading to the exit. “Stay with Bobbie. Trust no one else.”

  Ingrid calls after me. “Where are you going?”

  “The Bartholomew. I need to warn Dylan.”

  In a matter of seconds, I’m out of the gymnasium, then out of the building, then out on the street, where the moon still glows bright and round.

  It’s a full moon.

  The second one this month.

  A blue moon.

  42

  I take a cab back to the Bartholomew, even though I can’t afford it.

  My wallet is empty.

  So is my bank account.

  But speed is the most important thing right now. I’ve allowed myself twenty minutes to get back to the Bartholomew, collect what I can, meet up with Dylan, and then get the hell out of there. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just in and out, dropping my keys in the lobby before I’m out the door.

  Already I’m behind schedule. Traffic on Ei
ghth Avenue is a slow crawl north. In five minutes, the cab’s traversed only two blocks. I sit in the back seat, fear and impatience forming a potent combination that has my entire body buzzing. My hand shakes as I grab my phone and call Dylan.

  One ring.

  The cab, which has been idling at a red light, surges forward the moment the light turns green.

  Two rings.

  We zip past another block.

  Three rings.

  Another block goes by. Sixteen more to go.

  Four rings.

  After zooming across one more block, the cab screeches to a halt at a red light. I’m thrust forward, barely avoiding the plexiglass barrier between the back seat and the front. The phone drops from my trembling hands.

  It keeps ringing, the sound distant and tinny on the cab floor. The ringing stops, replaced by Dylan’s outgoing voicemail message.

  “This is Dylan. You know what to do.”

  I snatch the phone from the floor, practically shouting into it.

  “Dylan, I found Ingrid. She’s safe. She doesn’t know where Erica is. But you need to get out of there. Right now.”

  In the front seat, the cabbie looks up and gives me a curious glance in the rearview mirror. Arched brows. Creased forehead. Already he’s regretting picking me up. He’ll regret it even more in a minute.

  I look away and keep shouting into my phone, the words tumbling out.

  “I’m on my way there now. If you can, meet me outside. I’ll explain the rest after we leave.”

  I end the call as the light changes and the cab speeds forward again, hurtling us through Columbus Circle at a dizzying pace. On the right, the buildings fall away, replaced with the tree-studded expanse of Central Park.

  Thirteen blocks to go.

  I send Dylan a text.

  CALL ME.

  I immediately send another, more urgent one.

  YOU’RE IN DANGER.

  We zip by one more block. Twelve more remain.

  I tell myself to stay calm, stay focused.

  Don’t panic.

  Think.

  That’s what will get me out of this mess. Not panicking. Panic only breeds more panic.

  But thinking—calm, rational thought—will work wonders. Only, rational thought is impossible after I check my watch. Ten minutes spent in this cab and I’m not even halfway there.

  Time to bail.

  When the cab stops at the next light, I throw open the passenger door and leap out. The driver starts shouting at me, words I can’t make out because I’m too busy scrambling past cars in other lanes on my way to the sidewalk. Behind me, the cabbie honks his horn. Two quick, angry honks followed by a lengthy one that follows me up the block.

  I still hear it as I run across the street.

  Eleven blocks to go.

  I keep running, my pace quickening to a full sprint. Most people hear me coming and step out of the way. Those who don’t are shoved aside.

  I ignore their hard stares and angry gestures as I pass. All I can focus on is getting to the Bartholomew as fast as possible and, once I’m there, leaving just as quickly.

  Stay calm.

  Stay focused.

  Get in.

  Get out.

  As I run, I make a list of what to grab once I’m back in 12A. The photograph of my family. That’s my main priority. The photo fifteen-year-old me took of Jane and my parents that now sits in a frame next to the bed. Everything else can be replaced.

  I’ll also grab my phone charger, my laptop, some clothes. Nothing that can’t fit into a single box. There won’t be enough time for a return trip. Not with the minutes ticking by and the blocks passing slowly, even though I’m running as fast as I can.

  Five more blocks.

  Four more.

  Three more.

  I reach the end of another block and cross the street against the light, barely skirting past an oncoming Range Rover.

  I keep running. My lungs are on fire. So are my legs. My knees scream. My heart pounds so hard I worry it might burst right through my rib cage.

  I slow down once I near the Bartholomew. An unconscious winding down. Approaching the building, I scan the sidewalk, looking for signs of Dylan.

  He’s not there.

  Not a good sign.

  The only person I see is Charlie, who stands at the front door, holding it open, waiting for me to come inside.

  “Evening, Jules,” he says, a good-natured smile widening beneath his bushy mustache. “You must have been busy. You’ve been out all day.”

  I look at him and wonder how much he knows.

  Everything?

  Nothing?

  I’m tempted to say something. Ask for his help. Warn him to leave just as quickly as I’m about to. It’s a risk I can’t take.

  Not yet.

  “Job hunting,” I say, forcing my own smile.

  Charlie tilts his head in curiosity. “Any luck?”

  “Yes.” I pause, stalling. Then it comes to me. My perfectly rational excuse for leaving. “I got a job. In Queens. But because the commute is so far, I won’t be able live here anymore. I’ll be staying with friends until I can find a place.”

  “You’re leaving us?”

  I nod. “Right now.”

  When Charlie frowns, I can’t tell if his disappointment is genuine or as fake as my smile. Not even after he says, “Well, I for one hate to see you go. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”

  He continues to hold the door, waiting for me to enter. I hesitate, taking a quick glance at the gargoyles that hover over the front door.

  At one point, I thought they were whimsical. Now, like everything else about the building, they terrify me.

  Inside the Bartholomew, all is quiet. There’s no sign of Dylan here, either. No sign of anyone. The entire lobby is empty.

  I hurry to the elevator, my body resisting every step. By now I’m moving only through sheer force of will, commanding my stubborn muscles to step into the elevator, close the grate, press the button for the eleventh floor.

  The elevator rises, lifting me higher into a building that’s eerily silent. On the eleventh floor, I push out of the elevator and move quickly down the hall to Dylan’s apartment.

  I knock on Dylan’s door. A quick trio of raps.

  “Dylan?”

  I knock again. Harder this time, the door shaking beneath my fist.

  “Dylan, are you there? We need to—”

  The door swings away, leaving my fist swiping at nothing but air before dropping to my side. Then Leslie Evelyn appears. Filling the empty doorway. Wearing her black Chanel suit like armor. Wielding a fake smile.

  My heart, which has been pounding like thunder in my chest, suddenly stops.

  “Jules.” Leslie’s voice is sickly sweet. Honey laced with poison. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  I start to feel myself leaning to the side. Or maybe I’m not and it only feels that way. Shock leaving me reeling, unmoored, adrift. I can think of only one reason why Leslie would be in Dylan’s apartment.

  I’m too late.

  Dylan’s been taken.

  Just like Megan and Erica and God knows how many people before them.

  “Can I help you with something?” Leslie says, her eyelids fluttering in mock concern.

  My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Fear and shock have stolen my voice. Instead, I hear Ingrid’s voice, blasting like a siren into my thoughts.

  Run away as fast as you can.

  I do.

  Away from Leslie. Down the hall. To the stairwell.

  Rather than down, I go up. I have to. Others might be waiting for me in the lobby.

  My only option is 12A. If I can get there, then I can lock the door, call the police, demand that an officer co
me and escort me from the building. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Ingrid’s gun.

  So I start to climb, even though my knees throb and my hands shake and shock has left me numb.

  Up the stairs.

  Counting them as I go.

  Ten steps. Landing. Ten steps.

  Finally on the twelfth floor, I hurry down the hall, winded and aching. Soon I’m inside 12A, almost weeping with relief.

  I slam the door behind me and secure it.

  Lock. Deadbolt. Chain.

  I slump against the door for a sliver of a second to catch my breath. Then it’s down the hall, up more stairs, going slower this time.

  In the bedroom, I go straight to the nightstand and grab the framed photo of my family. Everything else is expendable. This is all I need.

  With the picture tucked under my arm, I descend the winding steps one last time. Soon I’ll be in the kitchen, calling the police, digging out the gun, cradling it in my lap until help arrives.

  At the bottom of the steps, I move into the hallway and stop.

  Nick is there.

  He stands straight-backed just beyond the foyer, blocking any attempt I might make to leave. Something’s in his hand, held behind his back where I can’t see it.

  His face is expressionless. A blank slate onto which I project a hundred fears.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” he says.

  43

  How did you get in here?” I say.

  A wasted question. I already know. Behind Nick, in the study, part of the bookshelf sits away from the wall. Beyond it is a dark rectangle. A passageway connecting one apartment to the other. If I searched it, I’m sure I would find a small set of steps in the wall leading to both 11A and 11B.

  Nick could have entered 12A anytime he wanted. In fact, I think he did. That noise I heard early in the mornings. The soft swishing sound, like socks on carpet or the train of a dress sliding across a table leg.

  That was Nick.

  Coming and going like a ghost.