Turns out it didn’t matter because she never showed. I didn’t find out she was gone until you told me the next day.”
Now I know why Dylan had acted so surprised that afternoon. It also explains why he was in such a hurry to get away from me. No one likes to be around a messenger bearing bad news.
“And now I can’t stop thinking that Ingrid’s missing because she knew what happened to Erica,” Dylan says. “When she vanished. How she vanished. It’s too similar to Erica to be a coincidence. It’s almost like someone else learned that Ingrid knew something and silenced her before she could tell me.”
“You think they’re both . . .”
I don’t want to say aloud the word I’m thinking for fear it’ll make it be true. I did the same after Jane vanished. We all did, my family tiptoeing around her disappearance with euphemisms. She hasn’t come home. We don’t know where she is. It was finally broken by my father’s midnight pronouncement a week later.
Jane is gone.
“Dead?” Dylan says. “That’s exactly what I think.”
My legs wobble as we move to another diorama. The most brutal of the bunch. A dead zebra being swarmed by vultures. A dozen at least, with more swooping in to snatch whatever scraps are left. Close by are a hyena and a pair of jackals, sneaking into the fray to grab their share.
The frenzied violence of the scene churns my stomach. Or maybe it’s Dylan’s suggestion that someone in the Bartholomew is killing young women who agree to watch apartments there.
Megan and Erica and now Ingrid.
I stare at the two vultures closest to the glass. They’re locked in battle—one bird on its back, taloned feet kicking, the other looming close, wings spread wide.
“Let’s say you’re right. You honestly believe there’s a serial killer in the Bartholomew?”
“I know, it sounds crazy,” Dylan says. “But that’s what it seems like to me. All three of them were apartment sitters. Then all three disappeared in pretty much the same way.”
It makes me think of something my father used to say.
One time is an anomaly. Two times is a coincidence. Three times is proof.
But proof of what? That someone at the Bartholomew is preying on apartment sitters? It’s still too preposterous to wrap my head around. Yet so is the coincidence of three young women without families moving out of the building and never contacting their friends again.
“But who could be doing such a thing? And why hasn’t anyone else at the Bartholomew picked up on it?”
“Who says they haven’t?”
“People there would care if they thought someone had killed apartment sitters.”
“They’re rich,” Dylan says. “All of them. And rich people don’t give a damn about the hired help. They’re vultures.”
“And what are we?”
He gives the diorama one last disdainful look. “That zebra.”
“It’s insane to—”
On the other side of the hall, one of the schoolgirls lets out a shriek. Not a scared one. A notice-me shriek, designed to get the attention of a nearby group of boys. Still, the sound is so jolting that it takes me a second to regain my composure.
“It’s insane to think an entire building would turn a blind eye to kidnapping or murder.”
“But you agree that something strange is going on, right?” Dylan says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have listened to me for this long. You wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”
I continue to stare at the diorama, not blinking, until the whole scene becomes wavy, as if life were slowly returning to those creatures behind the glass. Feathers tremble. Beady eyes move. The zebra takes a single breath.
“I’m here because I found Erica’s phone,” I remind him.
“And have you seen what’s on it?” Dylan asks. “Maybe Erica was in contact with whoever caused her disappearance.”
I remove the phone and hold it up for Dylan to see. “It’s locked. Do you have any idea what Erica’s passcode was?”
“We weren’t exactly at the password-sharing stage of our relationship,” Dylan says. “Do you know of another way to unlock it?”
I turn Erica’s phone over in my hand, thinking. Although I don’t know the first thing about hacking into a cell phone, I might know someone who does. Grabbing my own phone, I scroll through the call history until I find the number I’m looking for. I hit the dial button, and a laid-back voice soon answers.
“This is Zeke.”
“Hi, Zeke. This is Jules. Ingrid’s friend.”
“Hey,” Zeke says. “Have you heard from her yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m wondering if you could help me.