“I do.”

“Is that her dog?”

“That’s Rufus,” I say. “He belongs to Marianne Duncan.”

“From that soap opera?”

“The very one.”

“What a strange alternate universe you’ve stumbled into,” Chloe says.

I glance again at the image on my phone, rolling my eyes at the awful headline the tabloid came up with.

GARGOYLE CHAR-BROIL: BLAZE AT THE BARTHOLOMEW

“Wasn’t there anything else to put on the front page? You know, like real news.”

“This is news,” Chloe says. “Remember, Jules, most New Yorkers see the Bartholomew as the closest thing to heaven on earth.”

I move from the kitchen to the sitting room, where I’m greeted by the faces in the wallpaper. A whole army of dark eyes and open mouths. I instantly turn away.

“Trust me, this place is far from perfect.”

“So you read that article I sent you,” Chloe says. “That’s some scary shit, right?”

“It’s more than the article that’s bothering me.”

Concern sneaks into Chloe’s voice. “Did something else happen?”

“Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”

I tell her about meeting Ingrid, our plan to hang out each day, the scream from 11A and Ingrid’s insistence it was nothing. I finish with how Ingrid is now gone and not answering her phone and my suspicions that someone caused her to flee.

Left out are all the worrisome parts, specifically the note and the gun. Hearing about those would prompt Chloe to come to the Bartholomew and drag me from 12A. Which I can’t afford to do. Receiving my latest unemployment check has left me with slightly more than five hundred dollars in my account. Definitely not enough to help me get back on my feet.

“You need to stop looking for her,” Chloe says, just like I knew she would. “Whatever her reason was for leaving, it’s none of your business.”

“I think she might be in some kind of trouble.”

“Jules, listen to me. If this Ingrid person wanted your help, she would have called you by now. Clearly, she wants to be left alone.”

“There’s no one else looking for her,” I say. “If I vanished, you’d look for me. I don’t think Ingrid has a Chloe in her life. She has no one.”

There’s silence on Chloe’s end. I know what it means—she’s thinking. Choosing her words carefully in an attempt not to upset me. Even so, I know what her response is going to be before she even says it.

“I think this has less to do with Ingrid and more to do with your sister.”

“Of course my sister has something to do with it,” I say. “I stopped looking for her. And now I can’t stop thinking that maybe she’d be here now if I hadn’t given up so easily.”

“Finding Ingrid won’t bring Jane back.”

No, I think, it won’t. But it will mean there’s one less lost girl in the world. One less person who vanished into thin air, never to be seen again.

“I think you should get away from the Bartholomew,” Chloe says. “Just for a few days. Crash at my place this weekend.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about imposing. Paul is taking me to Vermont for the weekend. He booked it last week, when he thought . . .”

Chloe leaves the sentence unfinished. I know what she was going to say. Paul booked it when he thought I’d still be crashing on her couch. I’m not offended. They deserve a weekend alone.

“It’s not that,” I say. “I’m not allowed to spend any nights away from the apartment.”

Chloe sighs—a crackling hiss in my ear. “Those fucking rules.”

“No more lectures, please,” I say. “You know I need the money.”

“And you know I’d rather lend you some cash than see you be held prisoner in the Bartholomew.”

“It’s a job,” I remind her. “Not a prison. And don’t worry about me. Go to Vermont. Have fun. Go moose watching or whatever it is people do there.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Chloe says. “I’ll have my phone with me the whole time, even though our B-and-B is, like, in the middle of nowhere. Literally in the woods on top of a mountain. Paul already warned me there might not be cell service.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Chloe says.

“Positive.”

When the call ends, I remain in the sitting room, staring at those faces in the wallpaper. They stare right back, eyes unblinking, mouths open but silent, almost as if they want to tell me something but can’t.

Maybe they’re not allowed, just as I’m not allowed to have visitors or spend a night away from 12A.

Or maybe they’re too afraid speak.

Or maybe—and this is the most likely scenario—they’re just flowers on wallpaper and, like Ingrid’s departure, the Bartholomew is starting to get to me.

22

At twelve thirty, there’s a knock on my door.

Greta Manville.

A surprise, although not an unpleasant one. It’s a nice break from looking for jobs that don’t exist and checking my phone every five minutes for a response from Ingrid. Even more surprising is that Greta’s dressed for an outing. Black capris and an oversize shirt. Sweater preppily tied around her neck. Slung over her shoulder is a worn tote bag from the Strand.