Greta says. “Which I suppose makes me pragmatic. But today, I choose to focus on the flowers. Which is the real reason I stopped by. I wanted to give you this.”
She digs through her tote bag, eventually removing a first-edition hardcover of Heart of a Dreamer.
“It’s signed,” Greta says as she hands it to me. “Just as you requested when you first attacked me in the lobby.”
“I didn’t attack,” I say, feigning annoyance when in fact I’m touched beyond words.
That feeling—of friendship, of gratitude—lasts only a moment. Because when I open the book and see what Greta wrote on the title page, my blood turns cold.
“You don’t like it?” Greta says.
I stare at the inscription, rereading every word. I want to be sure I’m not mistaken.
I’m not.
“I love it,” I say, a bit too loudly, hoping the sound drowns out the voice of doubt that’s now whispering in my ear.
It doesn’t.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to be hit with one of my sudden sleeps?”
Because that’s how I feel. Like I’m perched on the edge of a great chasm, waiting for the slightest breeze to shove me screaming into it.
“I feel bad, that’s all,” I say. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all,” Greta says. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to.”
“But you were right to be annoyed with me when we first met. You must get bothered all the time to sign copies. Especially by the building’s apartment sitters.”
“You’re wrong there. I haven’t signed a copy for any other person at the Bartholomew. You’re special, Jules. This is my way of showing you that.”
I try to act flattered, clutching the book to my chest and pretending to be as thrilled as I truly would have been if Greta had done this a day or so ago. In truth, I want this book as far away from me as possible.
“I’m honored,” I say. “Truly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Greta continues to give me a concerned look. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“To be honest, I’m not feeling well.” Since faking enthusiasm didn’t work, I might as well try an excuse that’s slightly closer to the truth. “I think a cold is coming on. It always happens when the seasons start to change. I thought the tea would help, but I think what I really need is to lie down for a bit.”
If Greta sees through my attempt to get her out of the apartment, she doesn’t show it. She simply downs the rest of her tea, hoists the tote bag onto her shoulder, and shuffles out of the kitchen. At the door, she says, “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
I force a smile. “Not unless I check on you first.”
“Ah, so it’s now a contest,” Greta says. “I accept the challenge.”
With that, she slips out the door, giving me a little wave on her way to the elevator. As soon as she’s gone, I close the door and hurry down the hall to the bookshelf in the study. There, I grab the copy of Heart of a Dreamer I found my first day here and flip to the title page.
Seeing it creates a strange expansion in my chest. My heart exploding into jagged shards.
I gave Greta an opportunity to tell me the truth, and she refused to take it. I don’t know why. Nor do I know what it means.
All I know is that the title page of this book bears not just Greta’s handwriting but the exact same inscription she wrote in two other copies. The only difference is the names.
Mine in one.
Ingrid’s in another.
And now this.
Darling Erica,
Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!
Best wishes,
Greta Manville
34
I tell myself it means nothing.
That this is what Greta writes in every copy she signs.
That there are hundreds of women out there with books bearing this very inscription.
That she certainly didn’t befriend Erica and Ingrid like she did me. That she didn’t invite them in, take them to lunch, tell them about her past, and then—what? Kill them? Abduct them?
Of course not.
She’s not capable of that. Not physically. Not mentally.
Greta Manville, by virtue of age and infirmity, is harmless.
Then why did she lie? There’s nothing suspicious about signing books. Greta’s an author. It comes with the territory. If she had simply admitted to signing copies for Ingrid and Erica, I would have thought nothing of it, even with the knowledge that both are now missing.