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Get out.
As I run, I make a list of what to grab once I’m back in 12A. The photograph of my family. That’s my main priority. The photo fifteen-year-old me took of Jane and my parents that now sits in a frame next to the bed. Everything else can be replaced.
I’ll also grab my phone charger, my laptop, some clothes. Nothing that can’t fit into a single box. There won’t be enough time for a return trip. Not with the minutes ticking by and the blocks passing slowly, even though I’m running as fast as I can.
Five more blocks.
Four more.
Three more.
I reach the end of another block and cross the street against the light, barely skirting past an oncoming Range Rover.
I keep running. My lungs are on fire. So are my legs. My knees scream. My heart pounds so hard I worry it might burst right through my rib cage.
I slow down once I near the Bartholomew. An unconscious winding down. Approaching the building, I scan the sidewalk, looking for signs of Dylan.
He’s not there.
Not a good sign.
The only person I see is Charlie, who stands at the front door, holding it open, waiting for me to come inside.
“Evening, Jules,” he says, a good-natured smile widening beneath his bushy mustache. “You must have been busy. You’ve been out all day.”
I look at him and wonder how much he knows.
Everything?
Nothing?
I’m tempted to say something. Ask for his help. Warn him to leave just as quickly as I’m about to. It’s a risk I can’t take.
Not yet.
“Job hunting,” I say, forcing my own smile.
Charlie tilts his head in curiosity. “Any luck?”
“Yes.” I pause, stalling. Then it comes to me. My perfectly rational excuse for leaving. “I got a job. In Queens. But because the commute is so far, I won’t be able live here anymore. I’ll be staying with friends until I can find a place.”
“You’re leaving us?”
I nod. “Right now.”
When Charlie frowns, I can’t tell if his disappointment is genuineor as fake as my smile. Not even after he says, “Well, I for one hate to see you go. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”
He continues to hold the door, waiting for me to enter. I hesitate, taking a quick glance at the gargoyles that hover over the front door.
At one point, I thought they were whimsical. Now, like everything else about the building, they terrify me.
Inside the Bartholomew, all is quiet. There’s no sign of Dylan here, either. No sign of anyone. The entire lobby is empty.
I hurry to the elevator, my body resisting every step. By now I’m moving only through sheer force of will, commanding my stubborn muscles to step into the elevator, close the grate, press the button for the eleventh floor.
The elevator rises, lifting me higher into a building that’s eerily silent. On the eleventh floor, I push out of the elevator and move quickly down the hall to Dylan’s apartment.
I knock on Dylan’s door. A quick trio of raps.