the flashlight’s beam, and two small bedrooms across the hall from each other.
At the end of the hall is the door to the master bedroom. While not as grand as the one on the second level of 12A, it’s still impressive. There’s a king bed, an eighty-inch flat-screen TV, a master bath, and a walk-in closet. That’s where I go first, aiming the flashlight over bare carpet, empty shelves, dozens of wooden hangers holding nothing.
I go to the bathroom next, finding it equally as empty. The cabinets under the sink are bare. In the closet, towels line the shelves, neatly folded.
As I head back into the main bedroom, my phone lights up.
You’ve been in there awhile, Nick texts. Everything OK?
I note the time glowing at the top of the screen. I’ve been down here for fifteen minutes. Far longer than I intended.
Finishing up, I text, even though what I should be doing is leaving. There’s clearly nothing of Ingrid’s left in this apartment. I haven’t seen a single box or suitcase or even a remnant that she was ever here at all. But I also don’t want to leave without checking every square inch of the place. It took too much effort to get here once. I doubt I’ll be able to do it again.
I do a quick check under the bed, sweeping the flashlight back and forth across the carpet.
Nothing.
I go to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.
Nothing.
I then check the one on the right.
Something.
A book, resting like a hotel room Bible at the bottom of an otherwise empty drawer.
A new text arrives from Nick. Someone’s in the elevator. It’s moving.
I text back. Up?
Yes.
I aim the flashlight at the book in the drawer. Heart of a Dreamer. I’d recognize that cover anywhere. When I pick it up, I find a bookmark with a red tassel tucked among its pages.
I’ve seen this book—and bookmark—before. In a photo Ingrid posted on Instagram. The same post with the caption boasting how she had met Greta Manville.
This was Ingrid’s copy.
I’ve finally found something else she left behind.
I slide the bookmark from its place and see that nothing about it is personalized. It’s as generic as can be. Just an illustration of a cat curled up on a blanket. Ones just like it are sold in every bookstore in America.
My phone glows three times in quick succession, brightening the room like lightning flashes as I start to flip backward through the book, checking for scraps of paper tucked among the pages or notes in the margins. There’s nothing until I get to the title page, which bears an inscription written in large, looping letters.
Darling Ingrid,
Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!
Best wishes,
Greta Manville
My phone lights up again, forcing me to finally check it. I see four missed texts from Nick, each one more frightening than the last.
Elevator stopped on 11.
It’s Leslie! Someone’s with her.
They’re heading to 11A!!
The last text, sent mere seconds ago, makes my heart rattle.
HIDE
I drop the book back into the nightstand drawer and push it shut. Then I rush to the hallway just in time to hear the sound of a key turning a lock, the door opening, and, finally, the voice of Leslie Evelyn filling the apartment.
“Here we are, sweetie: 11A.”
28
Leslie and her guest are roaming 11A, their voices low, conversational. So far, they’ve stayed on the other side of the apartment. The study. The sitting room. Right now they’re in the kitchen, Leslie saying something I can’t quite make out.
I remain in the master bedroom, where I’ve stuffed myself beneath the bed. I lie on my stomach, the phone shoved under me to block the glow if Nick texts again. I keep my mouth clamped shut, breathing through my nose because it’s quieter that way.
Outside the bedroom, Leslie’s voice gets louder, clearer. I can now make out what she’s saying, which means she’s left the kitchen and is getting closer.
“This is one of the Bartholomew’s nicest units,” she says. “They’re all nice, of course. But this one is extra special.”
The person with her is a woman, young and chipper. At least, she’s trying to be. I notice a quiver of nervousness in her voice when she says, “It’s such an amazing apartment.”
“It is,” Leslie agrees. “Which means staying here is also a big responsibility. We need someone who’ll truly watch over the place.”
Ah, so this is an interview for Ingrid’s replacement. Leslie wasted no time. It also explains the girl’s nervousness. She’s trying hard