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Shiny with blood.
Still beating.
I wake up screaming. The sound blasts from my lungs, the sound reverberating off the walls. I clamp a hand over my mouth, just in case another scream is on its way. But then I remember the dream,gasp, and pull my hand away, checking it for blood and slime that aren’t really there.
I look from my hand to my surroundings. I’m in the sitting room, sprawled across the crimson couch. The faces in the wallpaper are still staring, still screaming. The grandfather clock ticks its way toward nine a.m., the sound filling the otherwise silent room.
When I sit up, something slides from my lap onto the floor.
The gun.
I slept with it all night. Apparently, that’s my life now. Sleeping in my clothes on a thousand-dollar sofa while cradling a loaded gun. I suppose I should be frightened by what I’ve become. But there are more pressing things to be afraid of.
The gun goes back into the shoe box, which is in turn put back in its hiding place under the sink. Like a fickle lover, I no longer want to look at it now that I’ve held it all night.
Back in the sitting room, I grab my phone, desperately hoping to see that Chloe or Dylan called me during the night. They didn’t. All I see are the texts I sent Chloe.
I need to get out of here.
I think I’m in danger.
The fact that Nick has Ingrid’s phone can mean only one thing: he also killed her. A horrible thought. With it comes gut-squeezing grief that makes me want to lie down on the floor and never get up again.
I resist because I’m in the same situation she was. A person who might know too much. A person at risk. The only question now is how muchIngridknew about Nick.
Erica told her something. Of that I’m sure. She shared her suspicion that something was amiss at the Bartholomew, and Ingrid started digging around. The voicemail Ingrid left confirms it.
I grab Erica’s phone from the coffee table, where it sat all night, and replay the voicemail.
I couldn’t stop thinking aboutwhat you told me yesterday, so I did a littledigging. And you’re right. There’s something deeply weird going onhere. I still don’t exactly know what it is, butI’m starting to get really freaked out. Call me.
I close my eyes, trying to form a timeline of events. Erica vanished the night of October fourth. Ingrid left this message the day before. If what she said in her voicemail is correct, then Erica had revealed her concerns about the Bartholomew the day before that, on October second.
Quickly, I scroll through Erica’s texts, checking to see if I missed something she sent to Ingrid on that date. There’s nothing. I return to the call log, doing the same for her outgoing calls.
And that’s when I see that Erica had missed another call from Ingrid.
The time was shortly after noon.
The date was October second.
Ingrid had even left another voicemail.
Hey, it’s Ingrid. I just got the message you sent down the dumbwaiter. Which is super cool, by the way. It’s, like, old-timey email. Anyway, I got it and I’m confused. Am I supposed to know who Marjorie Milton is?
I stop the message, play it again, listen intently.
Am I supposed to know who Marjorie Milton is?
I play it a third time, Ingrid’s voice sparking a memory. I know that name. It was read rather than heard. In fact, I saw it in print inside this very apartment.
I cross into the study, where I fling open the bottom desk drawer. Inside is the stack of magazines I found on my first day here. All those copies ofThe New Yorker, each marked with an address and a name.
Marjorie Milton.
The former owner of 12A.
Why Erica would feel the need to tell Ingrid about her is a mystery. Marjorie Milton is dead. And I’m pretty sure neither Ingrid nor Erica ever met the woman. Both arrived long after her demise.