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“Dylan?”
I knock again. Harder this time, the door shaking beneath my fist.
“Dylan, are you there? We need to—”
The door swings away, leaving my fist swiping at nothing but air before dropping to my side. Then Leslie Evelyn appears. Filling the empty doorway. Wearing her black Chanel suit like armor. Wielding a fake smile.
My heart, which has been pounding like thunder in my chest, suddenly stops.
“Jules.” Leslie’s voice is sickly sweet. Honey laced with poison. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I start to feel myself leaning to the side. Or maybe I’m not and it only feels that way. Shock leaving me reeling, unmoored, adrift. I can think of only one reason why Leslie would be in Dylan’s apartment.
I’m too late.
Dylan’s been taken.
Just like Megan and Erica and God knows how many people before them.
“Can I help you with something?” Leslie says, her eyelids fluttering in mock concern.
My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Fear and shock have stolen my voice. Instead, I hear Ingrid’s voice, blasting like a siren into my thoughts.
Run away as fast as you can.
I do.
Away from Leslie. Down the hall. To the stairwell.
Rather than down, I go up. I have to. Others might be waiting for me in the lobby.
My only option is 12A. If I can get there, then I can lock the door, call the police, demand that an officer come and escort me from the building. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Ingrid’s gun.
So I start to climb, even though my knees throb and my hands shake and shock has left me numb.
Up the stairs.
Counting them as I go.
Ten steps. Landing. Ten steps.
Finally on the twelfth floor, I hurry down the hall, winded and aching. Soon I’m inside 12A, almost weeping with relief.
I slam the door behind me and secure it.
Lock. Deadbolt. Chain.
I slump against the door for a sliver of a second to catch my breath. Then it’s down the hall, up more stairs, going slower this time.
In the bedroom, I go straight to the nightstand and grab the framed photo of my family. Everything else is expendable. This is all I need.
With the picture tucked under my arm, I descend the winding steps one last time. Soon I’ll be in the kitchen, calling the police, digging out the gun, cradling it in my lap until help arrives.
At the bottom of the steps, I move into the hallway and stop.
Nick is there.
He stands straight-backed just beyond the foyer, blocking any attempt I might make to leave. Something’s in his hand, held behind his back where I can’t see it.