Ingrid had this exact same view, yet she was getting paid for it. Which poses a bigger question: Why did she suddenly abandon the prospect of free rent and twelve thousand dollars? Although she had reservations about the Bartholomew, Ingrid also made it clear that, just like me, she had no money and nowhere else to go. But when she left the Bartholomew, she also left behind an additional ten thousand dollars. Short of a dire emergency, I can’t fathom turning down that much cash.

Something about Ingrid’s situation had suddenly changed. Quite literally overnight.

I dig my phone from my jacket pocket. Still no word from Ingrid. When I scroll through the texts I sent her, I see that she hasn’t read a single one.

Rather than text again, I decide to call, tapping her all-caps name and listening as the call goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi there! Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep, and I’ll call back as soon as I can.” A pause. “Oh, this is Ingrid, by the way. In case you didn’t already know that.”

At last, a beep arrives.

“Hey, Ingrid,” I say, trying to keep my tone pitched somewhere between casual and concerned. “It’s Jules. From the Bartholomew. Leslie just told me you moved out during the night. Is, um, everything okay? Call or text to let me know.”

I end the call and stare at the phone, unsure of what to do next.

Nothing.

That’s what Chloe would say. She’d tell me that Ingrid’s a stranger. That her business is her own. That I need to focus on getting a job, getting some money saved up, getting my life back in order.

She’d be right on all counts.

I do need to find a job. And earn money. And start rebuilding my existence piece by piece.

Yet that acorn of worry I felt earlier is now a full-fledged sapling, with leaf-studded branches stretching into my limbs. Making it grow is the weirdness of last night. That noise that sounded like a scream. Ingrid’s unnatural calm. The way she tried to downplay my concern.

I’m fine. Really.

I wasn’t convinced last night, and I’m definitely not convinced now. The only thing that will assuage my worry is hearing from Ingrid herself. But in order to do that, I need to first find out where she went.

When Jane went missing, the police gave us a list of steps we needed to follow to make it easier to locate her. Not that it did any good. I’m hoping I have more luck now as I go over those same steps in an attempt to find Ingrid.

Step one: Assess the situation.

Simple. Ingrid left in the middle of the night without telling anyone.

Step two: Think of reasons she might have left.

I’d like to think she left for a positive reason. Something happy. She suddenly found a job or won the lottery or was swept off her feet by one of the buskers in Central Park. But it’s not in my nature to be optimistic. Not anymore.

Step three: Think of places she might have gone.

A nonstarter. She could have gone literally anywhere.

Step four: Think of people she might have contacted since going missing.

This one’s more doable, thanks to social media. If Ingrid is as much of an oversharer online as she is in real life, all it will take to ease my mind is one status update saying she’s back in Boston or got a bartending gig in Alaska. Anything but the unknown will suffice.

I grab my laptop and start searching for Ingrid’s social media accounts, beginning with Facebook. That turns out to be more difficult than I expect. I haven’t used it in so long that it takes me several minutes and two wrong guesses before I remember my password.

When I finally log in, the first thing I see is my outdated profile pic. A vacation photo. Andrew and me at Disney World. We stand on Main Street, my arm around his waist and his over my shoulder while Cinderella’s castle rises behind us.

The picture startles me, mostly because the original was among the photos I set on fire before I moved out. Seeing it again feels like spotting a ghost. It was the only vacation the two of us took together, and even then we couldn’t really afford it. But at the time I thought it would be worth the expense. We look happy in the photo. We were happy. At least I was. But maybe Andrew was already thinking about finding someone else to screw. Perhaps he already had and I was just blissfully ignorant.

I delete the image and replace it with a blank avatar. That seems like a more appropriate reflection of my current state.

Once that’s out of the way, I do a search for Ingrid Gallagher, trying to remember all the places she told me she’s lived in the past two years. I narrow the search to New York, Seattle, and Boston, finding two Ingrid Gallaghers. Neither is the Ingrid I’m looking for.

I move on to Twitter, with similar results. Lots of Ingrid Gallaghers. None resemble the one I know.

Next up is Instagram, which I open using the app on my phone.

At last, success.

Ingrid Gallagher has an account.

Her hair is all blue in her profile picture. A too-bright shade that reminds me of cotton candy.

But then I see the photos she’s posted and my heart sinks. They’re a generic lot. Dimly lit food pictures and oddly angled selfies. The most recent picture is a selfie Ingrid took in Central Park, a bit of the Bartholomew visible over her left shoulder.

It was taken two days ago, probably around the same time I was getting a tour of 12A. Maybe Ingrid was one of the people I spotted in the park during that first, flushed look out the sitting room window. There’s even a chance I’m visible in the photo—a dim figure gazing out a twelfth-floor window of the Bartholomew.