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Seeing nothing of value, I’m about to turn off the penlight when it catches the edge of something shiny wedged in the corner of the vent. I steady the light and move in for a closer look. Although not cash, it’s something just as unexpected.
A cell phone.
Even though Charlie told me it’s happened before, I’m still surprised to find a phone at the bottom of the vent. I can understand not bothering to retrieve a cheap earring. But not even someone rich enough to live at the Bartholomew would just abandon their cell phone.
I grab the phone and turn it over in my hands. Although the screen is slightly scratched, it appears to be in good condition. WhenI try to turn it on, nothing happens, surely because the battery is dead. It might have been down there for months.
This phone is the same brand as mine. Although the one I have is older, my charger fits it all the same. I go upstairs and plug it into the phone, hoping that after it charges I’ll be able to figure out who it belongs to and eventually return it.
While the phone charges, I replace the grate over the vent and then take a shower. Freshly scrubbed and dressed, I return to the phone and see it now has just enough juice to be turned on. When I do, the phone brightens in my hands. Filling the screen is a photograph, presumably of its owner.
Pale face. Almond-shaped eyes. Brown hair in unruly curls.
I swipe a finger across the screen, seeing that the phone itself is locked—a security feature also in use on mine. Without a passcode to unlock it, there’s no way of knowing whose phone this is. Or was, seeing how they simply abandoned it in a heating vent.
I swipe back to the first screen, staring again at the woman pictured on it. A realization bubbles up from the deep well of my memory.
I’ve seen this woman before.
Not in person, but in a different picture. Just a few days ago.
In an instant I’m out of 12A and inside the elevator, which shuttles me to the lobby with its typically excruciating slowness. Outside the Bartholomew, I pass a doorman who isn’t Charlie and make a right.
The sidewalk is filled with the usual mix of joggers, dog walkers, and people trudging to work. I pass them all, practically running down the sidewalk until I’m two blocks from the Bartholomew. There, at the corner streetlamp, is a piece of paper hanging on by its last bit of tape.
In the dead center of the page is a photograph of the woman whose phone I found. Same eyes. Same hair. Same china-doll skin.
Above the photo is that red-lettered word that so repelled me the first time I saw the flier.
MISSING
Beneath it is the woman’s name.
One I also recognize.
Erica Mitchell.
The apartment sitter who was in 12A before me.
30
I slap the flier flat against the kitchen counter and stare at it, my heart buzzing.
Erica and Ingrid.
Both were apartment sitters at the Bartholomew.
Both are now missing.
That can’t be a coincidence.
I take a deep breath and reread the flier. At the top is that awful word spelled out in gaudy red.
MISSING
Below it is the photo of Erica Mitchell, who reminds me more of myself than of Ingrid. We have a similar look. Friendly yet wary. Pretty but not very memorable.
Both of us also occupied 12A. Mustn’t forget that.