Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  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 get another of those I-can’t-believe-this-is-real moments that have happened since moving into the Bartholomew.

  “I do realize that,” I say. “Which is why I’m freaking out.”

  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 had 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. Since I’m not sure which, if any, fit the screws on the vent cover, 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 grate. I steady the light and move in for a closer look. Although not a diamond, 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 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 read.

  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 informatio
n regarding Erica’s whereabouts.

  My parents did the same thing for Jane. Our phone rang a lot those first few weeks. One of my parents 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 appear 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. “Natural History Museum. Meet me at the elephants at noon. Come alone, and don’t tell anyone about this.”

  I end the call with a queasy feeling in my gut. Anxiety gnawing at my insides. Something very wrong is going on here. Something I can’t begin to comprehend.

  But Dylan seems to understand exactly what’s going on.

  And it freaks him the hell out.

  31

  I leave the Bartholomew at the same time Mr. Leonard makes his return. It’s a surprise to see him out of the hospital so soon, mostly because he looks like he could use another day there. His skin is pale and papery, and he moves with almost surreal slowness. It requires the assistance of both Jeannette and Charlie to get him out of the cab and across the sidewalk.

  I hold the door, taking over Charlie’s duty for a moment.

  “Thanks, Jules,” Charlie says. “I can take it from here.”

  Mr. Leonard and Jeannette say nothing. Both simply glance at me the same way they did during my tour of the building.

  When I get to the American Museum of Natural History, I’m further delayed by the busloads of students swarming the front steps. There are hundreds of them, clad in uniforms of plaid skirts, khaki pants, white shirts under dark blue vests. I nudge my way through them, jealous of their youth, their happiness, their drama and chatter. Life hasn’t touched them yet. Not real life.

  Once inside Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda, I pass beneath the skeletal arms of the massive barosaurus and head to the ticket counter. Although the museum is technically free, the woman behind the counter asks if I want to pay the suggested “donation” amount to get inside. I give her five dollars and get a judgmental look in return.

  After that bit of humiliation, I enter the Akeley Hall of African Mammals. Or, as Dylan put it, the elephants.

  He’s already there, waiting for me on the wooden bench surrounding the hall’s centerpiece herd of taxidermied elephants. His attempt to appear inconspicuous make him stand out all the more. Black jeans. Black hoodie. Sunglasses over his eyes. I’m surprised museum security isn’t hovering nearby.

  “You’re five minutes late,” he says.

  “And you look like a spy,” I reply.

  Dylan removes the sunglasses and surveys the packed hall. The schoolkids have started to ooze into the area, crowding around the surrounding nature dioramas until all that can be seen of the animals are pointed ears, curved horns, giraffe faces staring lifelessly from the other side of the glass.

  “Upstairs,” Dylan says, pointing to the hall’s mezzanine level. “It’s less crowded.”

  It is, but only marginally. After climbing the steps to the second floor, we stand before the only empty diorama. A pair of ostriches guarding their eggs from an approaching group of warthogs. The male’s got his head down, wings puffed, beak parted.

  “Did you bring Erica’s phone?” Dylan says.

  I nod. It’s in the front right pocket of my jeans. My own phone is in the left. Carrying both makes me feel encumbered, weighed down.

  “Let me see it.”

  “Not yet,” I say. “I’m not sure I completely trust you.”

  I don’t like the way he’s acting. Everything about Dylan seems jittery, from the way he jingles the keys in his pocket to his constant looking around the hall, as if someone is watching. When he returns his gaze to the diorama, he looks not at the ostriches, which are front and center, but at the encroaching predators. Even though they’ve been dead and stuffed for decades, he gives them a dark-eyed scowl. I think it’s probably intended for me.

  “I feel the same about you,” he says.

  I give him a wry smile. “At least we’re on even footing. Now, tell me everything you know about Erica Mitchell.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “That she was in 12A before me. She lived there a month before deciding to move out. Now she’s missing and you’re putting up posters looking for her. Care to fill me in on the rest?”

  “We were … friends,” Dylan says.

  I note the pause. “You sure about that?”

  We walk to another diorama. This one shows a pair of leopards hidden in a copse of jungle trees. One of them keenly watches a nearby bushpig, ready to strike.

  “Okay, we were more than friends,” Dylan says. “I ran into her in the lobby on my second day at the Bartholomew. We started flirting, one thing led to another, and we started hooking up on a regular basis. As far as we knew, that wasn’t against the rules. But we also didn’t broadcast it, just in case it was. So if you’re looking for a definitive relationship status, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t really know what we were.”

  I get a flashback to last night with Nick and can instantly relate.

  “How long did this go on?”

  “About three weeks,” Dylan says. “Then she left. There was no notice. She didn’t tell me she was leaving—or even thinking about it. One day, she was just gone. At first, I thought something might have happened. An emergency or something. But when I called, she never answered. When I texted, she never texted back. That’s when I started to get worried.”

  “Did you ask Leslie what happened?”

  “She told me Erica wasn’t comfortable with all those stupid apartment-sitter rules and decided to move out. But here’s the thing—Erica never once mentioned the rules to me. She certainly never talked about being bothered by them.”

  “Do you think something changed?”

  “I don’t know what could have changed overnight,” Dylan says. “I left her apartment a little before midnight. She was gone in the morning.”

  I note the similarities between her departure and Ingrid’s. They’re hard to miss.

  “Did Leslie say she specifically spoke to Erica?”

  “I guess she left a note,” Dylan says. “A resignation letter. That’s what Leslie called it. She said she found it shoved under her office door along with E
rica’s keys.”

  I stare at the diorama, unnerved by the way the leopards are posed. While one of them stalks the bushpigs, the other appears to be staring out of the diorama, directly at the people watching from the other side of the glass.

  I look away, resting my gaze on Dylan. “Is that when you started looking for Erica?”

  “You mean the missing posters? That was a few days after she left. When two days went by and I didn’t hear from her, I started to get worried. I went to the police first. That was useless. They told me—”

  “That you needed more information,” I say. “I got the same thing about Ingrid.”

  “But they’re not wrong,” Dylan says. “I don’t know enough about Erica. Her birthday. Her address before she got to the Bartholomew. For the poster, I guessed her height and weight. My hope was that someone would recognize her picture and call to tell me they’d seen her. I just want to know she’s okay.”

  We stop at another diorama. A pack of wild dogs hunting on the savannah, their eyes and ears alert for prey.

  “Have you tried tracking down her family?” I ask Dylan.

  “She doesn’t have any.”

  My heart skips a single, surprised beat. “None at all?”

  “She was an only child. Her parents died in a car accident when she was a baby. Her only aunt raised her, but she died a couple years ago.”

  “What about you? You have any family left?”

  “None,” Dylan says quietly, looking not at me but at the pack of dogs. There are six of them. Their own tight-knit unit. “My mom’s dead, and my dad might be. I don’t fucking know. I had a brother, but he was killed in Iraq.”

  Dylan is yet another apartment sitter who doesn’t have parents or family nearby. Between him, Erica, Ingrid, and myself, I’m sensing a trend. Either Leslie chooses orphans as some weird act of charity, or she does it because she knows we’re more likely to be desperate.

  “How much are you getting paid?” I ask Dylan.

  “Twelve thousand dollars for three months.”

  “Same,” I say.

  “But don’t you think that’s weird? I mean, who pays that much money to let someone stay in their fancy apartment? Especially when most people would do it for free.”