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There’s no turning back now. I’m in 11A. Time to start searching.
I begin in the kitchen, shining the flashlight into every cupboard and drawer, finding the usual assortment of pots, bowls, and utensils. Nothing looks out of place. Nor does anything look like it once belonged to Ingrid.
The phone brightens in my hand. Another text from Nick.
On the landing now. All is clear.
I continue the search, going through the hallway, the living room, and the study, all of which follow the same layout as 12A. There’s even a desk and bookshelf in the study, although they’re as devoid of information as the ones directly above them. The desk is empty. The bookshelf mostly is, too, save for a few John Grisham hardcovers and a phone book–thick biography of Alexander Hamilton.
It dawns on me that I have no idea why 11A is vacant. Ingrid nevergot the chance to mention a previous owner dying or a current resident being gone for an extended period of time. I suppose it could be either of those reasons, although neither would explain why the place looks so uninhabited. I get the feeling I had when peeking inside right after Leslie told me Ingrid had left. That the place seemed less like an apartment than a facsimile of one. Cold, quiet, tasteful to the point of blandness.
I move to the other side of the apartment, the one that doesn’t follow the same layout as mine. Where 12A stops at the corner of the Bartholomew, 11A continues down the building’s northern side. Here I find a bathroom, glowing white in the flashlight’s beam, and two small bedrooms across the hall from each other.
At the end of the hall is the door to the master bedroom. While not as grand as the one on the second level of 12A, it’s still impressive. There’s a king bed, an eighty-inch flat-screen TV, a master bath, and a walk-in closet. That’s where I go first, aiming the flashlight over bare carpet, empty shelves, dozens of wooden hangers holding nothing.
I go to the bathroom next, finding it equally as empty. The cabinets under the sink are bare. In the closet, towels line the shelves, neatly folded.
As I head back into the main bedroom, my phone lights up.
You’ve been in there awhile,Nick texts.Everything OK?
I note the time glowing at the top of the screen. I’ve been down here for fifteen minutes. Far longer than I intended.
Finishing up, I text, even though what I should be doing is leaving. There’s clearly nothing of Ingrid’s left in this apartment. I haven’t seen a single box or suitcase or even a remnant that she was ever here at all. But I also don’t want to leave without checking every square inch of the place. It took too much effort to get here once. I doubt I’ll be able to do it again.
I do a quick check under the bed, sweeping the flashlight back and forth across the carpet.
Nothing.
I go to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.
Nothing.
I then check the one on the right.
Something.
A book, resting like a hotel room Bible at the bottom of an otherwise empty drawer.
A new text arrives from Nick.Someone’s in the elevator. It’s moving.
I text back.Up?
Yes.
I aim the flashlight at the book in the drawer.Heart of a Dreamer. I’d recognize that cover anywhere. When I pick it up, I find a bookmark with a red tassel tucked among its pages.
I’ve seen this book—and bookmark—before. In a photo Ingrid posted on Instagram. The same post with the caption boasting how she had met Greta Manville.
This was Ingrid’s copy.
I’ve finally found something else she left behind.
I slide the bookmark from its place and see that nothing about it is personalized. It’s as generic as can be. Just an illustration of a cat curled up on a blanket. Ones just like it are sold in every bookstore in America.
My phone glows three times in quick succession, brightening the room like lightning flashes as I start to flip backward through the book, checking for scraps of paper tucked among the pages or notes in the margins. There’s nothing until I get to the title page, which bears an inscription written in large, looping letters.
Darling Ingrid,