not a good idea. I don’t want to get stumblingly drunk for the second time in two weeks, even though the occasions couldn’t be more different. The first time—when Chloe took me out for those ill-advised margaritas—was a sad drunk, with me weeping between sips. But now I’m oddly happy, content, and, for what feels like the first time in forever, hopeful.
Without thinking, I grab the matches off the counter, swiping one against the box until a flame flares at its tip. I then hold my left hand several inches above the flame, feeling its warmth on my open palm. Something I used to do quite often but haven’t tried in ages. There wasn’t a need.
Now that old urge has returned, and I slowly lower my hand toward the flame. As I do, I think of my parents and Jane and Andrew and fire chewing the edges of photographs before working its way to the center.
The warmth on my palm soon gives way to heat, which is quickly usurped by pain.
But I don’t move my hand. Not yet.
I need it to hurt a little more.
I stop only when my hand twitches against the pain. Self-preservation kicking in. I blow out the match, the flame gone in an instant, a few swirling fingers of smoke the only sign it was ever lit at all.
I light another, intent on repeating the process, when a strange noise rises from the dumbwaiter shaft. Although it’s muffled slightly by the closed cupboard door, I can tell the sound isn’t the dumbwaiter itself. There’s no slow turn of the pulleys, no almost imperceptible creak.
This noise is different.
Louder. Sharper. Clearly human.
It sounds, I realize, like a scream rising up the dumbwaiter shaft from the apartment below.
Ingrid’s apartment.
I stand frozen in the kitchen, my head cocked, listening intently for a second scream as the lit match burns its way toward my pinched thumb and forefinger. When it reaches them—a hot flash of pain—I yelp, drop the match, watch the flame wink out on the kitchen floor.
The burn spurs me into action. Sucking on my fingertip to dull the pain, I go from the kitchen to the hallway to the foyer. Soon I’m out of 12A, moving down the twelfth-floor hall on my way to the stairs.
The scream—or at least what I thought was a scream—replays in my head as I descend to the eleventh floor. Hearing it again in my memory tells me checking on Ingrid is the right thing to do. She could be hurt. She could be in danger. Or she could be none of those things, and I’m simply overreacting. It’s happened before. All my experiences past the age of seventeen have taught me to be a worrier.
But something about that sound tells me I’m not overreacting. Ingrid had screamed. In my mind, there’s nothing else it could have been. Especially now that I’m moving through the nocturnal silence of the Bartholomew. All is quiet. The elevator, sitting at one of the floors below, is still. In the stairwell, the only thing I hear is the whisper of my own cautious footfalls.
I check my watch when I reach the eleventh floor. One a.m. Another cause for concern. I can think of several bad reasons why a person would let out a single scream at this hour.
At the door to 11A, I pause before knocking, hoping I’ll hear another, happier sound that will ease my mind. Ingrid talking loudly on the phone. Or laughter just on the other side of the door.
Instead, I hear nothing, which prompts me to knock. Gently, so as not to disturb anyone else on the floor.
“Ingrid?” I say. “It’s Jules. Is everything okay?”
Seconds pass. Ten of them. Then twenty. I’m about to knock again when the door cracks open and Ingrid appears. She looks at me, eyes wide. I’ve surprised her.
“Jules, what are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.” I pause, uncertain. “I thought I heard a scream.”
Ingrid pauses, too. A seconds-long gap during which she forces a smile.
“It must have been your TV.”
“I wasn’t watching TV. It—”
I stop, unsure if I should be embarrassed or relieved or both. Instead, I’m even more concerned. Something about Ingrid seems off. Her voice is flat and reluctant—a far cry from the chatterbox she was in the park. I can see only half of her body through the gap in the door. She’s dressed in the same clothes as earlier, her right hand shoved deep into the front pocket of her jeans, as if searching