case just inside the door, hustle Leo up and down the street and throw him a few treats, then hurry back out.
I head directly to Taylor’s apartment a couple dozen blocks away at a pace just short of a run. When I get there, it’s nearly eight P.M. I lean a hand against the glass case containing the lobby directory, panting, and search the listed names.
I press the buzzer for T. Straub, then wait to hear her voice over the intercom. I try to slow my breathing, then smooth a hand over my hair.
I press my finger against the little black circle again, this time for a full five seconds.
Come on, I think.
I step back, looking up at the building, and wonder what I should do next. I can’t just wait around, hoping Taylor will return. How long can I continue jabbing at her buzzer on the off chance she is napping or listening to music on her headphones?
Assistance arrives in the form of a sweaty guy dressed in an Adidas tracksuit, who taps in the front door code. He’s busy staring at his phone and doesn’t even notice me as I catch the door before it closes and sneak in behind him.
I take the stairs to the sixth floor. I find Taylor’s apartment midway down the hall and rap my knuckles against the door so firmly they sting.
No answer.
I press my ear against the flimsy wood, listening for any sounds that would indicate she is inside—the blaring of a television or the drone of a hair dryer. But there is only silence.
Nausea grips my stomach. I fear Dr. Shields knows me so well that when I see her I won’t be able to camouflage my worries. I’m desperate to ask her questions: Why are you giving me all this money? What are you doing with the information I give you?
But I can’t. I’ve been telling myselt it’s so I don’t risk losing the income. But the truth is, maybe it’s more that I don’t want to risk losing Dr. Shields.
I lift my fist and thump a few more times, until the next-door neighbor sticks out her head and glares at me.
“Sorry,” I say meekly and she shuts her door again.
I try to think of what to do next. I’ve got twenty-one hours left. But tomorrow, like today, is full of clients; I won’t be able to come back before my appointment with Dr. Shields. I dig into my bag and pull out the copy of Vogue I am carrying around and tear out a piece of the glossy paper. I locate a pen and scribble: Taylor, It’s Jess again, from BeautyBuzz. Please call me. It’s urgent.
I’m about to stick it under her door when I think back to the messy apartment with the SkinnyPop popcorn and clothes lying about. Taylor might not even notice the scrap of paper. And even if she did, she probably still won’t contact me. It’s not like she has made any effort to return my call or text.
I turn to look at the door of the neighbor I just disturbed. I take a few steps to the side and hesitantly knock on it. The woman who answers is clutching a yellow highlighter. A smear of it bisects her chin. She is visibly unhappy.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Taylor or, uh . . .” I reach back in my memory for her roommate’s name and find it. “Or Mandy.”
The neighbor blinks at me. A strange premonition sweeps over me: She is going to say she doesn’t know who they are, that no girls by those names have ever lived next door.
“Who?” she begins.
My heart stutters.
Then her frown clears.
“Oh, yeah . . . I don’t know, finals are coming up, maybe they’re at the library. Although with those two, it’s more likely they’re at some party.”
She closes her door while I’m still standing there.
I wait until the feeling of light-headedness has passed, then head to the stairwell. I stand outside the building in the darkness, trying to think of my next move.
A girl with long straight hair passes me. Even though I instantly know she isn’t Taylor, I still turn to look at her as she shrugs a blue backpack higher up onto her shoulders and continues down the sidewalk.
I stare at the heavy-looking bag. Finals are coming up, the neighbor had said. Her impression of Taylor and Mandy meshed with mine: that these two don’t take school all that seriously.
It’s hard to picture the jaded young