apart.
Then I kiss him.
A quick, impromptu peck that makes me instantly recoil in shame.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Nick stares at me, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Why?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Did you not want to kiss me?”
“I did. It’s just—I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”
“Try it again and see.”
I take a breath.
I lean in.
I kiss Nick again. Slowly this time. Anxiously. I haven’t kissed anyone but Andrew for a very long time, and a silly, girlish part of me worries I’ve forgotten how. I haven’t, of course. It’s just as swooningly delicious as I remember.
It helps that Nick’s an amazing kisser. An expert. I willingly lose myself in the sensation of his lips on mine, his heart thundering beneath my palm, his hand on the small of my back.
The two of us say nothing as we move down the hallway on swaying legs, kissing against one wall before breaking away and reconnecting a few steps later. I follow him up the spiral steps to his bedroom, his white-hot hand brushing mine.
I pause for a moment at the top of the steps, a meek voice in the back of my brain telling me this is all happening too quickly. I have other things to worry about. Finding Ingrid. Finding a job. Finding some way to gain control of my life.
But then Nick kisses me again.
On my lips.
On my earlobe.
On the nape of my neck as he starts to undress me.
When my clothes fall away, all my worries go with them.
Relieved of them, I let Nick take me by the hand and guide me to his bed.
NOW
Dr. Wagner stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I don’t. Mostly because I understand that I am starting to sound crazy.
I absolutely cannot sound crazy.
Not to the doctor. Not to the police, when it’s time for the inevitable interrogation. Not to anyone, lest they think I’m the slightest bit unstable and therefore refuse to believe me.
They have to believe me.
“You suggested the Bartholomew was haunted,” Dr. Wagner says, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling. “I’ve always heard those rumors. Urban legends and whatnot. But I also heard all of that was ancient history.”
“History can repeat itself,” I say.
The doctor’s left eyebrow rises, cresting the frame of his glasses. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes. I met a girl on my first day at the Bartholomew. She later disappeared.”
I sound calmer now, even though on the inside I’m at full panic. My pulse thrums and my eyelids twitch and more sweat pools inside the brace at my neck.
But I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t talk faster.
If I edge even the tiniest bit toward hysteria, this conversation will be over. I learned that when I talked to the 911 operator.
“She was there one day, gone the next. It was almost as if she had died.”
I pause, giving the statement enough time to settle over Dr. Wagner. When it does, he says, “It sounds to me like you think someone at the Bartholomew was murdered.”
“I do,” I say, before adding the stinger. “Several people.”
TWO DAYS EARLIER
29
When I wake, it’s not George I see outside the window but a different gargoyle. His twin. The one that occupies the south-facing corner. I eye him with suspicion, on the verge of asking him what he did with George.
But then I realize I’m not alone.
Nick is asleep beside me, his face buried in a pillow, his broad back rising and falling.
Which explains the different gargoyle.
And the very different bedroom, which I’m just now noticing.
The previous night comes roaring back. The mad dash from 11A. Kissing downstairs. Then kissing upstairs. Then doing a lot more upstairs. Things I haven’t done since before Andrew and I moved in together and sex became routine rather than exciting.
But last night? That was exciting. And so unlike me.
I sit up to check the clock on the nightstand.
Ten minutes after seven.
I spent the entire night here and not in 12A. Yet another Bartholomew rule I’ve broken.
I slip out of bed naked, shivering in the morning chill and feeling suddenly shy. The old me, who went AWOL last night, is returning with a vengeance. I gather my clothes quietly, trying not to wake Nick until after I’m dressed.
No such luck. I’ve barely slipped on my panties when his voice rises from the bed.
“Are you leaving?”
“Sorry, yeah. I need to go.”
Nick sits up. “You sure? I was going to make you pancakes.”
Rather than attempt to put on my bra with Nick watching, I simply toss it with