by Riley Sager
“Where’s Dylan?” I’m so frightened I no longer recognize my voice. Pitched high and tremulous, it sounds like someone else. A stranger. “What have you done to him?”
“Didn’t Leslie tell you? He moved out.”
Nick smirks as he says it. A slight, scary upturn of his lips. I see it and know for certain that Dylan is dead. Nausea rushes through me in a fast and furious wave. I grip my stomach, certain I’d be throwing up right now if it wasn’t completely empty. All I can do is gag.
“Please let me leave.” I swallow hard, gasping for breath. “I won’t tell anyone what’s going on here.”
“And just what do you think is going on?” Nick says.
“Nothing,” I reply, as if that clear lie is all it will take to convince him to let me go.
Nick gives a sad shake of his head. “You and I both know that’s not true.”
He takes a step forward. I do the opposite, taking two backward.
“Let’s make a bargain,” he says. “If you tell me where Ingrid is, then maybe—just maybe—we’ll take her and spare you. How does that sound?”
It sounds like a lie. One as obvious as mine.
“I guess that’s a no,” Nick says when I don’t answer. “That’s a shame.”
He takes another step and reveals what’s been held behind his back.
The stun gun, a blue spark dancing across its tip.
I sprint down the hall, cutting right, into the kitchen. Once inside, I drop to my knees, sliding across the floor, aiming for the cupboard under the sink. I fling open the door and grasp at the shoe box, knocking it onto its side, the lid askew.
The box is empty.
I’m hit with a blast of memory. Me texting Ingrid about the gun. A text, I now realize, she never saw.
Other than me, Nick is the only one who knows about that text.
Behind me, his voice rises from the hallway.
“I admire your survival instincts, Jules. I do. But having a gun in the apartment is far too dangerous. I had to remove it and put it in a safe place.”
He rounds the corner and steps into the kitchen. He’s in no hurry. There’s no need to be. Not when I’m trapped like this. Alone and defenseless. Armed with nothing but a framed photo of my family, which I hold out in front of me like a shield.
“This doesn’t have to end violently, you know,” Nick says. “Offer yourself up peacefully. It’s easier that way.”
I search the kitchen, desperately looking for a weapon. The wood block of knives on the counter is too close to where Nick is standing, and the utensil drawer is too far away from me. He’ll be on me the moment I make a move for either.
Still, I have to try something. No matter what Nick says, going in peace is not an option.
To my right is the closed cupboard tucked between the oven and sink. I fling it open, revealing the dumbwaiter behind it. Nick moves as soon as I start to clamber inside. I’m halfway into it by the time he reaches me, the stun gun sparking. I kick at him. Wildly. Savagely. Screaming as my foot connects with his chest.
Through eyes half-closed with fear, I see another blue crackle of the stun gun. I kick again, aiming higher, at his face, his glasses crackling beneath my heel.
Nick yelps and reels backward.
The stun gun blinks out and clatters to the floor.
I pull my leg into the dumbwaiter, suddenly reminded of how small it really is. Using both hands, I give the rope a tug. A second later, the dumbwaiter plummets and I’m thrown into darkness.
I try to keep hold of the rope as the dumbwaiter drops, but it’s moving too fast, zipping over my palms, slicing into them. I pull my hands away and clamp my knees against the rope, hoping it will slow my descent.
I can’t tell if it’s working. It’s too dark, and the dumbwaiter is too loud, creaking under my weight. A line of heat forms at my knees. Friction burning through the denim of my jeans. I part my knees and scream again, the sound consumed by the noise of the dumbwaiter as it smashes into the apartment below.
The impact blasts through my entire body. My head snaps backward. Pain shoots up my spine. My limbs smack against the sides of the dumbwaiter.
When it’s all over, I wait in the darkness, aching and scared and wondering if I’m too injured to move. Because I am injured. Of that there’s no doubt. Pain rings my neck, hot and throbbing. A noose of heat.
But I can lift the dumbwaiter door and crawl out, careful not to jar my battered body. As I slide onto the kitchen floor of 11A, I’m surprised to see I can walk, albeit slowly. Pain hobbles every step.
I grit my teeth and push through it, moving out of the kitchen and into the foyer, where I fling open the door.
Out of 11A, the pain lessens with each step. Fear, I think. Maybe adrenaline. It doesn’t matter which, if it gets me down the hallway faster.
As I approach the elevator, I see that—miracle of miracles—it’s still stopped on the eleventh floor. The door sits open, as if waiting for me. I run toward it, suddenly aware of motion to my left.
Nick.
Coming down the steps from the twelfth floor, the stun gun zapping. His glasses dangle from one ear, the frames slanted across his face. The right lens is shattered. Blood oozes from a cut below his right eye, like crimson tears.
I throw myself into the elevator and pound the button for the lobby.
Nick reaches the elevator as the outer door closes. He thrusts his arm between the bars, stun gun sparking like St. Elmo’s fire.
I reach for the interior grate and slam it into his arm, pinning it against the door.
I pull back and do it again.
Harder this time.
So hard that Nick jerks his arm away, the stun gun falling from his hand.
I slam the grate into place, and the elevator begins to carry me downward. Before I sink beyond the eleventh floor, I see Nick take to the stairs.
Tenth floor.
Nick is flying down the steps. I can’t see him yet, but his shoes slap against the marble, echoing down to me.
Ninth floor.
He’s getting closer. I get a glimpse of his feet crossing the landing between floors before the elevator slides out of view.
Eighth floor.
A scream for help balloons in my lungs. I keep it inside. I already know that, just like Ingrid’s, it will go ignored.
Seventh floor.
I spot Marianne standing on the landing, watching. No makeup. No sunglasses. Her skin a sickly yellow.
Sixth floor.
Nick speeds up after passing Marianne. He’s in full view now. A churning blur streaking across the landing, descending almost at the same speed as the elevator.
Fifth floor.
I bend down and scoop up the stun gun, surprisingly heavy in my hand.
Fourth floor.
I press the button on the side of the stun gun, testing it. The tip sparks in a single, startling zap.
Third floor.
Nick continues to keep pace with me. I rotate in the elevator car, watching out the windows as he moves. Ten steps, landing, ten more steps.
Second floor.
I stand with my hand on the grate, ready to fling it open as soon as the elevator stops.
Lobby.
I burst out of the elevator just as Nick starts down the staircase’s final ten steps. I’ve got roughly ten feet on him. Maybe less.
I cross the lobby in frantic strides, not daring to look back. My heart pounds and my head swims and my body hurts so much that I can’t feel the stun gun in my hand or my family’s photo still tucked under my arm. My vision narrows so that all I can see is the front door ten feet from me.
Now five.
Now one.
Safety’s just on the other side of that door.
Police and pedestrians and strangers who’l
l have to stop and help.
I reach the door.
I push it open.
Someone shoves me away from the door. A large, hulking presence. My vision expands, taking in his cap, his uniform, his mustache.
Charlie.
“I can’t let you leave, Jules,” he says. “I’m sorry. They promised me. They promised my daughter.”
Without thinking, I fire up the stun gun and jab it into his stomach, the tip buzzing and sparking until Charlie is doubled over, grunting in agony.
I drop the stun gun, push out the door, zoom across the sidewalk and into the street.
Charlie calls out behind me, “Jules, look out!”
Still running, I risk a glance behind me and see him still doubled over in the doorway, Nick by his side.
There’s more noise. A cacophony. The honk of a horn. The screech of tires. Someone, somewhere screams. It sounds like a siren.
Then something slams into me and I’m knocked sideways, flying out of control, hurtling into oblivion.
NOW
When I wake, it’s with jolting suddenness. My eyelids don’t flutter open. There’s no lazy, dry-mouthed yawn. I simply go from darkness to light in an instant, feeling the same way I did before I went to sleep.
Panicked.
I understand the situation with neon clarity. Chloe is in danger. Ingrid, too, if they ever find her. I need to help them.
Right now.
I look to the open door. The room is dark, the hallway silent. Nary a whisper or sneaker squeak to be heard.
“Hello?” Thirst has distorted my voice, turning it into an ungainly croak. “I need—”
To call the police.
That’s what I want to say. But my throat seizes up, cutting me off. I force out a cough, more to get the attention of a nurse than to revive my voice.
I try again, louder this time. “Hello?”
No one answers.
The hall, for the moment, appears to be empty.
I search the table by the bed for a phone. There isn’t one. Nor is there a call button with which to summon a nurse.
I slide out of bed, relieved to discover I can walk, although not very well. My legs are wobbly and weak, and my entire body is gripped with pain. But soon I’m out of the room and into a hallway that’s shorter than I expected. Just a dim corridor with doors leading to two other rooms and a small nurses’ station that’s currently empty.
There’s no phone there, either.
“Hello?” I call out. “I need help.”
Another door sits at the end of the hall, closed tight.
It’s white.
Windowless.
And heavy, a fact I learn when I try to pry it open. It takes an extra tug and a pain-flaring grunt to finally get it to budge.
I pass through it, finding myself in another hallway.
One I think I’ve seen before. Like all my recollections of late, it’s vague in my mind. A half memory made hazy by pain and worry and sedatives.
The hallway turns. I turn with it, rounding the corner into another hall.
To my right is a kitchen done up in muted earth tones. Above the sink is a painting. A snake curled into a perfect figure eight, chomping on its own tail.
Beyond the kitchen is a dining room. Beyond that are windows. Beyond them is Central Park colored orange by the setting sun, making it look like the whole park is on fire.
Seeing it sends a stark, cold fear pulsing through me.
I’m still in the Bartholomew.
I have been the whole time.
The realization makes me want to scream even though my throat won’t allow it. Fear and thirst have clenched it shut.
I start to move, my bare feet smacking the floor in worried, hurried steps. I get only a few feet before a voice rises from somewhere behind me.
Hearing it opens my throat, despite the thirst and fear. A scream erupts from deep inside me, only to be pushed back by a hand clamping over my mouth. Another hand spins me around so I can see who it is.
Nick.
Lips flat.
Eyes angry.
To his right is Leslie Evelyn. To his left is Dr. Wagner, a needle and syringe in his hand. A bead of liquid quivers on the needle’s tip before he jabs it into my upper arm.
Everything instantly goes woozy. Nick’s face. Leslie’s face. Dr. Wagner’s face. All of them blur and waver like a TV on the fritz.
I gasp.
I let out another scream.
Loud and pitiable and streaked with terror.
It careens down the hall, echoing off the walls, so that I’m still hearing it when everything fades to nothingness.
ONE DAY LATER
44
I dream of my family in Central Park, standing in the middle of Bow Bridge.
This time, I’m with them.
So is George.
It’s just the five of us on the bridge, looking at our reflections in the moonlit water below. A slight breeze blows through the park, forming ripples on the water and making our faces look like funhouse-mirror versions of their true selves.
I stare at my reflection, marveling at how it wobbles and wavers. Then I look at the reflections of the others and notice something strange.
Everyone is holding a knife.
Everyone but me.
I turn away from the water and face them. My family. My gargoyle.
They raise their knives.
“You don’t belong here,” my father says.
“Run,” my mother says.
“Run away as fast as you can,” Jane says.
George says nothing. He simply watches with stoic stone eyes as my family lurches forward and begins to stab me.
TWO DAYS LATER
45
I wake slowly. Like a swimmer uncertain about surfacing, pulled against my will from dark waters. Even after I regain consciousness, sleep lingers. A fog curling through me, languorous and thick.
My eyes stay closed. My body feels heavy. So heavy.
Although there’s pain in my abdomen, it’s distant, like a fire on the other side of the room. Just close enough that I can feel its heat.
Soon my eyelids move, flickering, fluttering, opening to the sight of a hospital room.
The same one as before.
No windows. Chair in the corner. Monet hanging from the white wall.
Despite the fog in my head, I know exactly where I am.
The only thing I don’t know is what will happen to me next and what’s already happened.
My body refuses to move, no matter how much I try. The fog is too heavy. My legs are useless. My arms are the same. Only my right hand moves—a weak flop against my side.
Turning my head is the most movement I can muster. A slow turn to the left lets me see the IV stand by the bed, its thin plastic tube snaking into my hand.
I can also tell that the bandage around my head is gone. My hair slides freely across the pillow when I roll my head in the opposite direction. That’s where the photo of my family sits, my wan reflection visible in the cracked frame.
The sight of that pale face sliced into a dozen slivers causes my right hand to twitch. To my surprise, I can lift it. Not much. Just enough to get it to flop onto my stomach.
I move my hand across the hospital gown. Beneath the paper-thin fabric is a slight bump where a bandage sits. I can feel it on the upper left side of my abdomen, slightly below my breast. Touching it sends pain flashing through my body, cutting the fog enough for me to really feel it. Like a lightning strike.
With the pain comes panic. A confused horror in which I know something is wrong but I can’t tell what it is.
My hand keeps moving down my side, slow and trembling. Just to the left of my navel is a different dreadful rise. Another bandage.
More pain.
More panic.
More smoothing my hand over my stomach, fingers probing, searching for yet another bandage.
I find it in the center of my lower abdomen, several inches below my navel. It’s longer than the others. The pain gets worse when I press down on it. A gasp-inducing flare.
What did you do to me?
I think it more than say it. My voice is a dry croak, barely audible in the room’s dim silence. But in my head it’s a full-throated sob.
At my stomach, the pain burns with more intensity. This fire is no longer distant. It’s here. Roaring across my gut. I clutch it with my one working hand. My thoughts continue to scream. My weakling voice can only moan.
Outside the room, someone hears me.
It’s Bernard, who rushes in, his eyes no longer kind. When he glances my way, he looks not at me but past me. I moan again, and he disappears.
A moment later, Nick enters the room.
I let out another mental howl.
Get away from me! Please don’t touch me!
My voice can’t make it past that first word. A hoarse, haggard “Get.”
Nick removes my hand from my stomach and places it gently at my side. He feels my forehead. He strokes my cheek.
“The surgery was a success,” he says.
A single question forms in my thoughts.
What surgery?
I attempt to ask it, sputtering out half a syllable before the mental fog returns. I can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or if I’ve once again been injected with something. I suspect it’s the latter. Sleep threatens to overtake me. I’m back to being a swimmer, this time sinking into the murky depths.
Before I go under, Nick whispers in my ear.
“You’re fine,” he says. “Everything is fine. Right now, we only needed the one kidney.”
THREE DAYS LATER
46
Hours pass. Maybe days.
It’s hard to tell now that my existence has been reduced to two modes—asleep and awake.
Right now, I’m awake, although the fog makes it difficult to know for sure. It’s so overpowering that everything has the feel of a dream.