My hope is that Greta feels a misguided sense of protection. She knows what I’ve gone through. I’ve told her all my sad tales. It’s likely she pities me and fears that my knowing about the copies signed for the others would make me feel less special. As if thinking I’m her favorite will somehow make up for all the shitty things in my past.
Or maybe Greta knew Ingrid better than she’s let on. Erica, too. She was friendly with both, knows they’re now missing, and understands that being associated with either of them might drag her unwillingly into a search. It doesn’t mean she’s involved in their disappearances. Nor does it mean she doesn’t care if they’re found. She just doesn’t have the time, energy, or stamina to look for them the same way I’m doing.
Those two explanations are eclipsed by a third—that Greta is hiding something.
She already told me Ingrid went to see her, allegedly to ask about the Bartholomew’s unsettling past. What if that was also a lie? What if Ingrid knocked on Greta’s door asking not about the building but about Erica?
It’s not as outlandish as it sounds. I ended up on Greta’s doorstep seeking information about Ingrid. Which makes it possible she did the same in regard to Erica. Maybe, like I did, she had reason to believe Greta and Erica were friends.
On the flip side, maybe Ingrid did ask Greta about the Bartholomew, because she suspected Erica had done the same thing. Iffy but still possible. In order for that logic to hold, I need something to suggest Erica had also been looking into the building’s past.
I return to the crimson sofa with Erica’s phone, opening the web browser to check her bookmarked sites and browsing history. The bookmarks are typical for a young woman in Manhattan. The MTA schedule, a local weather site, a handful of takeout menus. Her browser history, however, is empty, meaning Erica cleared it. Of course. It was ridiculous of me to expect a browser history filled with incriminating searches about the Bartholomew’s dark past.
Rather than close the browser, which I should do, or toss the phone across the room, which is what I want to do, I start a Google search. No, Erica didn’t save her browser history, but there’s a chance she used the autocomplete function, which automatically types frequently queried topics into the search bar.
I start with the Bartholomew. Just typing in a single T brings up a familiar name: Thomas Bartholomew—the doctor who designed and built this place, only to leap from its roof half a year later. Erica was clearly reading up on him.
I click, and the screen is filled with articles about the ill-fated Dr. Bartholomew. The first link takes me to the same New York Times article I’d read a few days ago.
TRAGEDY STRIKES BARTHOLOMEW
I go back to the search page and keep scrolling, not stopping until I find something that doesn’t seem to address the death of Dr. Bartholomew. Clicking the link, I’m taken to a listing for the Bartholomew in a no-frills directory of Manhattan real estate. It’s nothing more than the building’s name, address, and a dusting of facts.
Year built: 1919
Number of units: 44
Owner: This building is privately owned and operated by the Bartholomew family. No public records regarding building value, annual profit, and income or estimated price per unit could be found.
I close the web browser and try a different approach, scrolling once more through Erica’s old texts. There’s little of interest. Just routine exchanges with friends or arranging trysts with Dylan. It’s the same with her call log. In the days leading to her disappearance, Erica called only Hunan Palace and Dylan.
But she did receive a call from Ingrid on October third.
The day before she disappeared.
I quickly swipe to Erica’s voicemail, bypassing the ones Dylan and I listened to in the park. Just beyond them is a message we didn’t get to.
I tap it and hear Ingrid’s voice, hushed and worried.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday, so I did a little digging. And you’re right. There’s something deeply weird going on here. I still don’t exactly know what it is, but I’m starting to get really freaked out. Call me.
Erica never called back, which means she either talked to Ingrid in person or thought returning the call wasn’t important. I suspect it was the former. Ingrid’s message sounds too worried to ignore. Which