Page 62

There’s silence on Chloe’s end. I know what it means—she’s thinking. Choosing her words carefully in an attempt not to upset me. Even so, I know what her response is going to be before she even says it.
“I think this has less to do with Ingrid and more to do with your sister.”
“Of course my sister has something to do with it,” I say. “I stopped looking for her. And now I can’t stop thinking that maybe she’d be here now if I hadn’t given up so easily.”
“Finding Ingrid won’t bring Jane back.”
No, I think,it won’t. But itwillmean there’s one less lost girl in the world. One less person who vanished into thin air, never to be seen again.
“I think you should get away from the Bartholomew,” Chloe says. “Just for a few days. Crash at my place this weekend.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t worry about imposing. Paul is taking me to Vermont for the weekend. He booked it last week, when he thought...”
Chloe leaves the sentence unfinished. I know what she was going to say. Paul booked it when he thought I’d still be crashing on her couch. I’m not offended. They deserve a weekend alone.
“It’s not that,” I say. “I’m not allowed to spend any nights away from the apartment.”
Chloe sighs—a crackling hiss in my ear. “Those fucking rules.”
“No more lectures, please,” I say. “You know I need the money.”
“Andyouknow I’d rather lend you some cash than see you be held prisoner in the Bartholomew.”
“It’s a job,” I remind her. “Not a prison. And don’t worry about me. Go to Vermont. Have fun. Go moose watching or whatever it is people do there.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Chloe says. “I’ll have my phone with me the whole time, even though our B-and-B is, like, in the middle of nowhere. Literally in the woods on top of a mountain. Paul already warned me there might not be cell service.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” Chloe says.
“Positive.”
When the call ends, I remain in the sitting room, staring at those faces in the wallpaper. They stare right back, eyes unblinking, mouths open but silent, almost as if they want to tell me something but can’t.
Maybe they’re not allowed, just as I’m not allowed to have visitors or spend a night away from 12A.
Or maybe they’re too afraid speak.
Or maybe—and this is the most likely scenario—they’re just flowers on wallpaper and, like Ingrid’s departure, the Bartholomew is starting to get to me.
22
At twelve thirty, there’s a knock on my door.
Greta Manville.
A surprise, although not an unpleasant one. It’s a nice break from looking for jobs that don’t exist and checking my phone every five minutes for a response from Ingrid. Even more surprising is that Greta’s dressed for an outing. Black capris and an oversize shirt. Sweater preppily tied around her neck. Slung over her shoulder is a worn tote bag from the Strand.
“To thank you for your assistance last night, you may escort me to lunch.”
She says it with benevolent pomp, as if she’s bestowing upon me one of life’s greatest honors. Yet I detect another emotion lurking in the back of her throat—loneliness. Whether she wanted it or not, I’ve dragged her out of her cocoon of books and sudden sleeps. I also suspect that, deep down, Greta likes my company.
I loop my arm through hers. “I would be happy to escort you.”
We end up at a bistro a block away from the Bartholomew. A red awning covers the door, and fairy lights twinkle in the windows. Inside, the place is bustling with so many locals on their lunch breaks that I fear we won’t get a table. But upon seeing Greta, the hostess leads us to a corner booth that’s remained conspicuously empty.