my book.”
“I meant later,” I say. “Next time we run into each other.”
“How do you know there’s going to be a next time?”
“If we do, I mean. But I do want to thank you for writing it. Reading it is why I moved to New York. And now I’m here. Temporarily, at least.”
Greta turns away from her mailbox. Slowly. Not too curious, but enough to study me with those keen, inquisitive eyes. Her lips pucker ever so slightly, as if she’s thinking about what to say next.
“A temporary tenant?”
“Yes. Just moved in.”
This prompts a slight nod from Greta, who says, “I imagine Leslie went over the rules?”
“She did.”
“Then I’m sure she told you about not bothering residents.”
I gulp. I nod. Disappointment burrows into my heart.
“She did say residents like their privacy.”
“And so we do,” Greta says. “You might want to keep that in mind the next time we run into each other.”
She shuts the mailbox and edges past me again, our shoulders brushing. I shrink away. In a voice no louder than a murmur, I say, “Sorry for bothering you. I just thought you’d like to know that Heart of a Dreamer is my favorite book.”
Greta spins around in the middle of the lobby, an armful of mail clutched against her chest. Her blue eyes have turned ice cold.
“It’s your favorite book?”
I feel the urge to backtrack. The words One of them form on my tongue, weak and flavorless. I stop myself. If this is the only time I speak to Greta Manville—and it sure seems like it will be, considering how unpleasant she is—then I want her to know the truth.
“It is.”
“If that’s the case,” she says, “then you need to read more.”
The words have the impact of a slap—hot and stinging. I wince. My cheeks turn red. I even sway back on my heels, as if buffeted by a blow. Greta, meanwhile, strides stiff-backed to the elevator, not even bothering to see my reaction.
Knowing she doesn’t even care how the insult affects me somehow makes it feel worse.
Like I’m the least important person in the world.
But then I turn toward the front door and see Charlie standing just inside the lobby. While I don’t think he witnessed my entire conversation with Greta Manville, he at least saw enough to know why I appear so rattled.
Tipping his cap, he says, “While I’m not allowed to speak ill of the residents, I’m also not supposed to turn a blind eye when one of them is rude. And she was very rude to you, Miss Larsen. I apologize on behalf of everyone at the Bartholomew.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve been treated worse.”
“Don’t let it get you down.” Charlie smiles and holds the door open for me. “Now go out and enjoy the beautiful day.”
I step outside and see three girls pressed together for a selfie with the gargoyles above the door. One of them raises her phone and says, “Say ‘Bartholomew’!”
“Bartholomew!” the other two echo in unison.
I freeze in the doorway until the picture is taken. Giggling, the girls move on, unaware I’m also in the photo. Then again, there’s a chance they might not even notice me at all. It’s easy to feel invisible on this patch of busy Manhattan sidewalk. In addition to the Bartholomew tourists, I see dog walkers, nannies pushing strollers, harried New Yorkers doing the sidewalk slalom around them.
I join them all at the corner two blocks away from the Bartholomew, waiting for the light to change. The streetlamp there bears a taped flier that’s come loose at one edge, the paper flapping like a windblown flag. I get glimpses of a woman with pale skin, almond-shaped eyes, and a mane of curly brown hair. Above her photo, in siren-red letters, is one dreadfully familiar word.
MISSING
Memories lurch out of nowhere, leaping on top of me until the sidewalk turns to quicksand beneath my feet.
All I can think about are those first fraught days after Jane vanished.
She was also on a flier, her yearbook photo placed under the word MISSING, which was colored a similarly urgent red. For a few weeks, that picture was everywhere in our tiny town. Hundreds of identical Janes. None of them the real thing.
I turn away, afraid that if I look again it’ll be Jane’s face I see on the flier.
I’m relieved when the light changes a second later, sending the dog walkers, nannies, and weary New Yorkers into motion across the street. I follow, my footsteps quick, putting as much distance