“When was this?” the dispatcher says.

“Yesterday. And then she left in the middle of the night.”

“And you’re sure she never said anything else? Maybe on a different occasion?”

“Not to me, but we only met yesterday.”

And that’s it. I’ve lost him. Rightly so. Even I can hear how pathetic I sound.

“Miss, I understand that you’re worried about your neighbor,” the dispatcher says, his voice suddenly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a child. “But I really don’t know how to help you. You’ve given me very little information to go on. You’re not a family member. And, if you’ll pardon me, it sounds like you don’t even really know this woman. All I can do is politely ask that you hang up and free this line for callers with real emergencies.”

I do. The dispatcher is right. I don’t know Ingrid. But I’m not the sad, paranoid woman I sounded like during the call.

Something about this situation is very, very wrong. And I won’t know anything more than that until I locate Ingrid. The only thing I do know, made abundantly clear by that dispatcher, is that if I’m going to find Ingrid, I’ll have to do it all on my own.

20

Another night, another bad dream.

My family again. They’re still in Central Park, occupying Bow Bridge, all of them holding hands and smiling up at me.

This time, though, they’re on fire.

I’m once more perched on the roof, nestled inside one of George’s open wings. I watch the fire engulf each of them. First my father, then my mother, then Jane. The flames rise to a peak off the tops of their heads. The water below reflects their burning figures, turning three flames into six. When Jane waves to me with a fiery hand, her reflection follows suit.

“Be careful,” she calls out as smoke pours from her mouth.

It’s thick smoke. Black and roiling and so strong I can smell it from the Bartholomew’s roof. Below me, I hear the agitated shriek of a fire alarm echoing through the halls.

I look at George, his beaked face stoic as he stares at my burning parents. “Please don’t push me,” I say.

His beak doesn’t move when he answers.

“I won’t.”

Then he uses a stone wing to nudge me off the roof.

I wake with a jerk on the crimson sofa in the sitting room, the nightmare clinging to me like sweat. I can still smell the smoke and hear the blare of the fire alarm. It’s as if I’m not awake at all but simply caught in another, similar dream. The smoke tickles my nose and throat. I cough.

That’s when I understand what’s going on.

This isn’t a dream.

It’s really happening.

Something in the Bartholomew is on fire.

The smell of smoke drifts into the apartment. Out in the hallway, the fire alarm blares. Contained inside that incessant clanging is another sound—pounding.

Someone is at the door.

In between those rattling knocks comes Nick’s voice.

“Jules?” he shouts. “You in there? We need to get out of here!”

I fling open the door and see Nick standing there in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops. His hair is mussed. His eyes are fearful.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Fire. Not sure where.”

I yank my jacket from the coatrack and shove it on, even as Nick starts to pull me out of the apartment. I shut the door behind me because I read that’s what you’re supposed to do in the case of an apartment fire. Something to do with airflow.

Nick keeps pulling me along, into the hall, where a thin haze of smoke is made more pronounced by the bright strobe of the emergency lights on the wall. I cough twice. Two harsh barks that get lost in the sound of the fire alarm.

“Is there a fire escape?” I say, shouting so Nick can hear me.

“No,” Nick shouts back. “Just fire stairs at the back of the building.”

He pulls me past the elevator and interior staircase to an unmarked door at the far end of the hall. Nick gives the door a push, but it doesn’t open.

“Fuck,” he says. “I think it’s locked.”

He pushes the door again before ramming his shoulder into it. The door doesn’t budge.

“We have to take the main stairs,” he says before pulling me back the way we came.

Soon we’re again at the elevator and stairwell, which now pumps out smoke like a chimney. The sight is so jarring that I come to a halt, immobile with fear, no matter how much Nick tugs my arm.

“Jules, we need to keep moving.”

He gives another shoulder-wrenching yank of my arm, and I feel myself pulled unwillingly toward the stairs. Soon we’re descending them. Nick moves at a quick, steady pace. I’m more frantic, speeding up then slowing down before being pulled along again.

The smoke is thicker on the eleventh floor—a fog-like, undulating wall. I lift my jacket to cover my nose and mouth. Nick does the same with his T-shirt.

“Go on ahead,” he says. “I want to make sure no one else is still up here.”

I don’t want to go down the rest of the stairs alone. I’m not sure my body will let me. Already I’ve come to another halt. Dread seems to be riding on the smoke, curling around me, oozing into my pores.