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Because now I have another, unexpected worry to contend with.
Leslie is watching my every move.
27
I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Nick says.
“You said you wanted to help.”
The two of us are in the kitchen of 12A, standing shoulder to shoulder as we stare into the open dumbwaiter. Nick scratches the back of his neck, charmingly uncertain.
“This,” he says, “isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“You know of a better way to get into Ingrid’s apartment?”
“You could—and I know this might sound crazy—just ask Leslie to let you in. She’s got a key.”
“I’m on her bad side at the moment. She says I was bothering Marianne Duncan.”
“And were you?”
I give him a quick rundown of the past hour, from Charlie’s flower delivery to Marianne’s skittishness to the idea that 11A might still contain some kind of clue regarding what happened to Ingrid.
“With Leslie highly unlikely to cooperate, it’s the dumbwaiter or nothing,” I say. “You lower me down, I take a look around, you pull me back up.”
Nick continues to eye the dumbwaiter with skepticism. “There are, like, a hundred ways in which your plan can go wrong.”
“Name one.”
“I could drop you.”
“I’m not that heavy, and you’re not that weak,” I counter. “Besides, it’s only one floor down.”
“Which is far enough to cause serious damage if you fall,” Nick says. “Trust me, Jules, this isn’t something you should take lightly, even though your bravery is admirable.”
I’m not brave. I’m in a hurry. I remember those cops who chastised my family for waiting so long after Jane vanished. They stressed that every minute counts. It’s now been more than forty hours since Ingrid disappeared. The clock is ticking.
“I do trust you. Which is why I asked you to help me with this. Please, Nick. Just a quick look. Down and back.”
“Down and back,” he says, reaching for the dumbwaiter rope and giving it a tug to test its strength. “How much time do you plan on spending between those two steps?”
“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“And you really think this could help you locate Ingrid?”
“I’ve tried everything else,” I say. “I called hospitals. I went to a homeless shelter. I’ve asked around as much as I could. I’m running out of options here.”
“But what do you expect to find?”
I know what Idon’texpect—another gun, or an even more alarming note written on the back of a poem. But something less sinister and more useful could be lying among the tasteful furnishings of 11A.
“Hopefully something that might hint at where Ingrid has gone,” I say. “A piece of mail. An address book.”
I’m grasping at straws, I know. Not to mention ignoring the likelihood that nothing belonging to Ingrid remains in that apartment. But if somethingisthere, finding it could finally help me locate her, which would put all my questions—and worries—to rest.
“I told you I’d help, so I will,” Nick says, shaking his head, as if he can’t quite believe he’s agreed to this. “What’s the plan?”
The plan is for me to climb into the dumbwaiter with my phone and a flashlight. Nick will then lower me into 11A. As soon as I’m out,he’ll raise it back to 12A, just in case Leslie keeps tabs on this kind of thing.