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His face is expressionless. A blank slate onto which I project a hundred fears.
“Hey there, neighbor,” he says.
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How did you get in here?” I say.
A wasted question. I already know. Behind Nick, in the study, part of the bookshelf sits away from the wall. Beyond it is a dark rectangle. A passageway connecting one apartment to the other. If I searched it, I’m sure I would find a small set of steps in the wall leading to both 11A and 11B.
Nick could have entered 12A anytime he wanted. In fact, I think he did. That noise I heard early in the mornings. The soft swishing sound, like socks on carpet or the train of a dress sliding across a table leg.
That was Nick.
Coming and going like a ghost.
“Where’s Dylan?” I’m so frightened I no longer recognize my voice. Pitched high and tremulous, it sounds like someone else. A stranger. “What have you done to him?”
“Didn’t Leslie tell you? He moved out.”
Nick smirks as he says it. A slight, scary upturn of his lips. I see it and know for certain that Dylan is dead. Nausea rushes through me in a fast and furious wave. I grip my stomach, certain I’d be throwing up right now if it wasn’t completely empty. All I can do is gag.
“Please let me leave.” I swallow hard, gasping for breath. “I won’t tell anyone what’s going on here.”
“And just what do you think is going on?” Nick says.
“Nothing,” I reply, as if that clear lie is all it will take to convince him to let me go.
Nick gives a sad shake of his head. “You and I both know that’s not true.”
He takes a step forward. I do the opposite, taking two backward.
“Let’s make a bargain,” he says. “If you tell me where Ingrid is, then maybe—just maybe—we’ll take her and spare you. How does that sound?”
It sounds like a lie. One as obvious as mine.
“I guess that’s a no,” Nick says when I don’t answer. “That’s a shame.”
He takes another step and reveals what’s been held behind his back.
The stun gun, a blue spark dancing across its tip.
I sprint down the hall, cutting right, into the kitchen. Once inside, I drop to my knees, sliding across the floor, aiming for the cupboard under the sink. I fling open the door and grasp at the shoe box, knocking it onto its side, the lid askew.
The box is empty.
I’m hit with a blast of memory. Me texting Ingrid about the gun. A text, I now realize, she never saw.
Other than me, Nick is the only one who knows about that text.
Behind me, his voice rises from the hallway.
“I admire your survival instincts, Jules. I do. But having a gun in the apartment is far too dangerous. I had to remove it and put it in a safe place.”
He rounds the corner and steps into the kitchen. He’s in no hurry. There’s no need to be. Not when I’m trapped like this. Alone and defenseless. Armed with nothing but a framed photo of my family, which I hold out in front of me like a shield.
“This doesn’t have to end violently, you know,” Nick says. “Offer yourself up peacefully. It’s easier that way.”
I search the kitchen, desperately looking for a weapon. The wood block of knives on the counter is too close to where Nick is standing,and the utensil drawer is too far away from me. He’ll be on me the moment I make a move for either.