“That’s right,” Leslie tells me. “Swiftly and without notice, I might add.”

“Ingrid didn’t even tell you she was leaving?”

“She did not. And I really would have appreciated some advance notice. Instead, she just slipped out in the middle of the night.”

“Did anyone see her leave? Who was the doorman on duty?”

“That would be Charlie,” Leslie says. “But he didn’t see her go.”

“Why not?”

“He was in the basement at the time. The security camera down there wasn’t working properly, so he left his station to try to fix it. When he returned, he found the keys for 11A right in the middle of the lobby. That’s where Ingrid dropped them on her way out.”

“What time was this?”

“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Charlie.”

“Are you certain she’s gone?” I say, thinking out loud. “There’s a chance she accidentally dropped the keys in the lobby and didn’t notice. Maybe there was an emergency with one of her friends and she had to leave in a hurry. She could be on her way back here right now.”

Although my theory is possible, it’s also improbable. And none of it explains why Ingrid hasn’t texted me back.

It’s clear Leslie thinks the same thing. She leans against the doorframe and gives me a look brimming with pity. I don’t mind. My parents gave me similar looks after Jane vanished and I’d wake them up with far-fetched theories about where she was and why I was certain she’d return. At seventeen, I was the queen of magical thinking.

“That seems unlikely, don’t you think?”

“It does,” I say. “But so does Ingrid leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone.”

Leslie tilts her head, the unruly curl on the verge of breaking free again. “Why are you so interested in Ingrid?”

I could give her several reasons, all of them true. That Ingrid was friendly and fun and I liked being around her. That she reminded me of Jane. That it was a refreshing change of pace to know someone other than Chloe who actually wanted to be around me.

Instead, I tell Leslie the biggest cause of my concern.

“I thought I heard a scream last night.”

Leslie gives an exaggerated blink of surprise. “In 11A?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Around one a.m. I came down to check on Ingrid, but she told me I was just hearing things.”

“None of the other residents reported hearing anything like that,” Leslie says. “Are you sure it was a scream you heard?”

“I-I don’t know?”

It shouldn’t be a question. I either heard a scream or I didn’t. Yet that curl of uncertainty at the end of my sentence means something. It tells me, in its own frustrating way, that maybe what I heard was indeed all in my head.

But then why was Ingrid acting so strangely when she came to the door?

“I’ll ask around to see if anyone else heard something,” Leslie says. “That kind of thing would be noticed in a building as quiet as this one.”

“I’m just worried about her,” I say, trying to clarify my concern.

“She left, sweetie,” Leslie says dismissively. “Like a thief in the night. Which was my initial thought, by the way. That she was a thief. That’s why I’m here. I thought for sure I’d find this place completely cleaned out. But everything is still here. Ingrid took only her belongings.”

“And she didn’t leave anything behind? Nothing to suggest she’ll be back? Or where she went?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Leslie steps away from the door. “You’re welcome to come in and look.”

Just beyond the open doorway I see a hallway and sitting room with a view nearly identical to the one in 12A. The room is neat, modern. No red wallpaper with prying eyes here. Just cream-colored walls enhanced with modern art and furnishings straight out of a Crate & Barrel catalog. In fact, the whole apartment has the look of a display. Furnished but uninhabited.

“Everything’s the way it was when Ingrid moved in,” Leslie says. “So if she did leave anything behind, it would be in the basement storage unit. I haven’t checked there yet because it seems that Ingrid lost the key to it. It’s missing from the key ring Charlie found in the lobby.”

Which means Ingrid probably never used it. I’ve certainly had no need to visit 12A’s storage unit. All my belongings are in the bedroom closet, which is big enough to hold everything I’ve ever possessed and still have room for more.

Leslie touches my shoulder and says, “I wouldn’t be too worried about Ingrid. I’m sure there’s a good reason why she left. And, quite frankly, I’d love to hear it.”

As would I. Because, right now, nothing about this makes sense. A renewed sense of worry clings to me as I climb the stairs to the twelfth floor. Back inside 12A, I crash on the sitting room sofa, my brain clouded by confusion. Why would Ingrid want to leave the Bartholomew? Why would anyone?

I glance outside, where fog is quickly settling over the city. The mist skims low across Central Park, making the treetops appear to float like clouds. It’s beautiful, in a melancholy way. A view few people can afford. Those who can pay millions for the privilege.