Page 12

“You’re expected to check the mail every day. There won’t be much of anything, of course. But the late owner’s family requested that whatever does arrive be forwarded to them. It goes without saying that you shouldn’t open any of it, no matter how urgent it appears. For privacy’s sake. As for your own mail, we recommend getting a post-office box. Receiving personal mail at this address is strictly prohibited.”
I give a quick nod. “Understood.”
“Now, let’s get you up to the apartment. On the way there, we can go over the rest of the rules.”
She crosses the lobby again, this time heading to the elevator. Trailing behind her with my suitcase, I say, “Rules?”
“Nothing major. Just a few guidelines you’ll need to follow.”
“What kind of guidelines?”
We stand by the elevator, which is currently in use. Through the gilded bars, I see cables in motion, slithering upward. The whir of machinery rises from somewhere below. A few floors above us, the elevator car hums as it descends.
“No visitors,” Leslie says. “That’s the biggest one. And when I say no visitors, I mean absolutely no one. No bringing friends for a tour. No letting family members stay over to save them a hotel booking. And definitely no strangers you might meet in a bar or on Tinder. I can’t stress this enough.”
My first thought is Chloe, to whom I had promised a tour tonight. She’s not going to like this. She’ll tell me it’s a sign—another alarm bell ringing loud and clear. Not that I need Chloe’s help to hear this one.
“Isn’t that kind of—” I stop myself, searching for a word that won’t offend Leslie. “Strict?”
“Perhaps,” Leslie says. “But also necessary. Some very prominent people live here. They don’t want strangers walking through their building.”
“Aren’t I technically a stranger?” I say.
Leslie corrects me. “You’re an employee. And, for the next three months, a tenant.”
The elevator finally arrives, bringing with it a man in his early twenties. He’s short but muscular, with a broad chest and big arms. His hair—black, obviously dyed—flops over his right eye. Small ebony discs rest in both earlobes.
“Well, isn’t this marvelous,” Leslie says. “Jules, I’d like to introduce you to Dylan. He’s another apartment sitter.”
I had already intuited this. His Danzig T-shirt and baggy black jeans, frayed at the cuffs, gave it away. Like me, he clearly doesn’t belong in the Bartholomew.
“Dylan, this is Jules.”
Rather than shake my hand, Dylan shoves his hands into his pockets and gives me a half-mumbled hello.
“Jules is moving in today,” Leslie tells him. “She was justexpressing her concerns about some of the rules we have for our temporary tenants. Perhaps you could enlighten her more about that.”
“I don’t mind them all that much.” He has an accent. The thickened vowels and rounded consonants instantly peg him as being from Brooklyn. The old-school section. “It’s nothing to worry about, really. Nothing too strict.”
“See?” Leslie says. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I gotta go,” Dylan says, his eyes aimed at the marble floor between his sneakers. “Nice meeting you, Jules. I’ll see you around.”
He pushes past us, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets. I watch him go, observing the way he walks with his head still lowered. He pauses at the door Charlie holds opens for him, almost like he’s having second thoughts about going outside. When Dylan finally does step onto the sidewalk, it’s with the skittishness of a deer about to cross a busy highway.
“A nice young man,” Leslie says once we’re in the elevator. “Quiet, which is what we like around here.”
“How many apartment sitters currently live here?”
Leslie slides the grate across the elevator door. “You make three. Dylan’s on eleven, as is Ingrid.”
She hits the button for the twelfth floor, and the elevator again creaks to life. As we rise to our destination, she goes over the rest of the rules. Although I’m allowed to come and go as I please, I must spend each night in the apartment. It makes sense. That is, after all, what I’m being paid to do. Live there. Occupy the place. Breathe life into it, as Leslie put it during that surreal interview.
Smoking isn’t allowed.
Of course.
Nor are drugs.