“To thank you for your assistance last night, you may escort me to lunch.”

She says it with benevolent pomp, as if she’s bestowing upon me one of life’s greatest honors. Yet I detect another emotion lurking in the back of her throat—loneliness. Whether she wanted it or not, I’ve dragged her out of her cocoon of books and sudden sleeps. I also suspect that, deep down, Greta likes my company.

I loop my arm through hers. “I would be happy to escort you.”

We end up at a bistro a block away from the Bartholomew. A red awning covers the door, and fairy lights twinkle in the windows. Inside, the place is bustling with so many locals on their lunch breaks that I fear we won’t get a table. But upon seeing Greta, the hostess leads us to a corner booth that’s remained conspicuously empty.

“I called ahead,” Greta says as she picks up one of the menus left for us on the table. “Also, the owner values loyalty. And I’ve been coming here for years, since the first time I lived at the Bartholomew.”

“How long has it been since you moved back?” I ask.

Greta gives me a stern look across the table. “We’re here to have lunch. Not play twenty questions.”

“How about two questions?”

“I’ll allow it,” Greta says as she snaps her menu shut and beckons the nearest waitress. “But let me order first. If I’m going to be interrogated, I’d like to make sure sustenance is on the way.”

She orders grilled salmon with a side of steamed vegetables. Even though I assume she’s treating, I get the house salad and a water. Frugal habits die hard.

“The answer to your first question,” Greta says once the waitress departs, “is almost a year. I returned last November.”

“Why did you come back?”

Greta sniffs, as if the answer is obvious. “Why not? It’s a comfortable place within close proximity to everything I need. When an apartment opened up, I jumped at the chance.”

“I heard it was difficult finding an open apartment there,” I say. “Isn’t the waiting list huge?”

“That’s your third question, by the way.”

“But you’ll allow it.”

“I’m not amused,” Greta says, even though she is. There’s a noticeable upturn to her lips that she tries to hide by taking a sip of water. “The answer is yes, there is a waiting list. And before you ask the predictable follow-up, there are ways around it if one knows the right people. I do.”

When the food arrives, it’s a study in contrasts. Greta’s meal looks scrumptious, the salmon steaming and smelling of lemon and garlic. My salad, on the other hand, is a bowl of disappointment. Nothing but limp romaine lettuce smattered with tomato slices and croutons.

Greta takes a bite of fish before saying, “Has there been any news regarding your recently departed apartment-sitter friend? What was her name again?”

“Ingrid.”

“That’s right. Ingrid with the abominable hair. There’s still no indication where she went?”

I shrug. Such an ineffectual gesture, when it comes right down to it. All that tiny rise and fall of my shoulders against the booth’s vinyl does is remind me how little I really know.

“At first, I thought it was because she was afraid to stay in the Bartholomew any longer.”

Greta reacts the same way Nick did—with muted shock. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“You have to admit something feels off,” I say. “There are websites, entire websites, devoted to all the bad things that have happened there.”

“That’s why I avoid the internet,” Greta says. “It’s a cesspool of misinformation.”

“But a lot of it’s true. The servants killed by Spanish flu. And Dr. Bartholomew jumping from the roof. That doesn’t happen at average apartment buildings.”

“The Bartholomew isn’t an average apartment building. And because of its notoriety, things that happen there become exaggerated to the point of myth.”

“Is Cornelia Swanson a myth?”

Greta, who had been lifting a forkful of salmon to her mouth, halts mid-bite. She lowers her fork, folds her hands on the table, and says, “A word of advice, my dear. Don’t mention that name inside the Bartholomew. Cornelia Swanson is a topic no one there wants to discuss.”

“So what I’ve read about her is true?”

“I didn’t say that,” Greta snaps. “Cornelia Swanson was a lunatic who should have been living in an asylum, not at the Bartholomew. As for all that utter nonsense—that she consorted with that Frenchwoman and sacrificed her maid in some bizarre occult ritual—it’s nothing more than conjecture. What I told you just now is the same thing I said to your friend.”

“Ingrid specifically asked about Cornelia Swanson?”

“She did. I suspect she was disappointed by my answer. I think she came looking for all the gory details. But, as I’ve said, there aren’t any to give. In fact, the strangest thing I’ve seen at the Bartholomew lately is the behavior of a certain young woman who helped escort me from the building last night.”

I stab my fork into the salad, saying nothing.

“When the elevator was stopped on the seventh floor, you acted . . . unusual. Would you care to explain what happened?”