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Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!
Best wishes,
Greta Manville
My phone lights up again, forcing me to finally check it. I see four missed texts from Nick, each one more frightening than the last.
Elevator stopped on 11.
It’s Leslie! Someone’s with her.
They’re heading to 11A!!
The last text, sent mere seconds ago, makes my heart rattle.
HIDE
I drop the book back into the nightstand drawer and push it shut. Then I rush to the hallway just in time to hear the sound of a key turning a lock, the door opening, and, finally, the voice of Leslie Evelyn filling the apartment.
“Here we are, sweetie: 11A.”
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Leslie and her guest are roaming 11A, their voices low, conversational. So far, they’ve stayed on the other side of the apartment. The study. The sitting room. Right now they’re in the kitchen, Leslie saying something I can’t quite make out.
I remain in the master bedroom, where I’ve stuffed myself beneath the bed. I lie on my stomach, the phone shoved under me to block the glow if Nick texts again. I keep my mouth clamped shut, breathing through my nose because it’s quieter that way.
Outside the bedroom, Leslie’s voice gets louder, clearer. I can now make out what she’s saying, which means she’s left the kitchen and is getting closer.
“This is one of the Bartholomew’s nicest units,” she says. “They’re all nice, of course. But this one is extra special.”
The person with her is a woman, young and chipper. At least, she’s trying to be. I notice a quiver of nervousness in her voice when she says, “It’s such an amazing apartment.”
“It is,” Leslie agrees. “Which means staying here is also a big responsibility. We need someone who’ll truly watch over the place.”
Ah, so this is an interview for Ingrid’s replacement. Leslie wasted no time. It also explains the girl’s nervousness. She’s trying hard to impress.
“Back to the questions,” Leslie says. “What’s your current employment situation?”
“I’m an actress,” the girl says. “I’m waiting tables part time until I get my big break.”
She lets out a nervous chuckle, making light of the idea, as if she doesn’t even believe it. I feel bad for her. I’d feel worse if I wasn’t hiding in fear, watching their shadows glide along the hallway wall. A moment later they’re in the bedroom, Leslie flicking on the overhead light. Like an insect, I shrink farther under the bed.
“Do you smoke?” Leslie asks.
“Only if a role requires it.”
“Drink?”
“Not really,” the girl replies. “I’m not legal yet.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in a month.”
They cross the room.
Then approach the bed.