I grab my phone and dial. I have no doubt that whoever put up that flier will be very interested to know I found Erica’s phone.

The call is answered by a man with a distinctly familiar voice.

“This is Dylan.”

I pause, surprise rendering me temporarily mute.

“Dylan the apartment sitter at the Bartholomew?”

Now it’s his turn to pause, a good two seconds broken by a suspicious, “Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Jules,” I say. “Jules Larsen. In 12A.”

“I know who you are. How did you get my number?”

“From the missing poster for Erica Mitchell.”

The line goes dead. Another surprise.

Dylan has ended the call.

I’m about to call back when the phone buzzes in my hand.

A text from Dylan.

We can’t talk about Erica. Not here.

I text him back. Why not?

Several seconds pass before a series of rippling blue dots appears on the screen. Dylan is typing.

Someone might hear us.

I’m alone.

Do you know that for certain?

I start to type my reply—something along the lines of Paranoid much?—but Dylan beats me to the punch.

I’m not being paranoid. Just cautious.

Why are you looking for Erica? I type.

Why are you calling about her?

Because I found her phone.

My own phone rings suddenly. It’s Dylan calling, likely too shocked to text.

“Where did you find it?” he says as soon as I answer.

“In a heating vent in the floor.”

“I want to see it,” Dylan says. “But not here.”

“Then where?”

He gives it only a moment’s thought. “Museum of Natural History. Meet me at the elephants at noon. Come alone, and don’t tell anyone about this.”

I end the call with a queasy feeling in my gut, anxiety gnawing at my insides. Something very wrong is going on here. Something I can’t begin to comprehend.

But Dylan seems to understand exactly what’s going on.

And it freaks him the hell out.

31

I leave the Bartholomew at the same time Mr. Leonard makes his return. It’s a surprise to see him out of the hospital so soon, mostly because he looks like he could use another day there. His skin is pale and papery, and he moves with almost surreal slowness. It requires the assistance of both Jeannette and Charlie to get him out of the cab and across the sidewalk.

I hold the door, taking over Charlie’s duty for a moment.

“Thanks, Jules,” Charlie says. “I can take it from here.”

Mr. Leonard and Jeannette say nothing. Both simply glance at me the same way they did during my tour of the building.

When I get to the American Museum of Natural History, I’m further delayed by the busloads of students swarming the front steps. There are hundreds of them, clad in uniforms of plaid skirts, khaki pants, white shirts under dark blue vests. I nudge my way through them, jealous of their youth, their happiness, their drama and chatter. Life hasn’t touched them yet. Not real life.

Once inside the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda, I pass beneath the skeletal arms of the massive barosaurus and head to the ticket counter. Although the museum is technically free, the woman behind the counter asks if I want to pay the suggested “donation” amount to get inside. I give her five dollars and get a judgmental look in return.

After that bit of humiliation, I enter the Akeley Hall of African Mammals. Or, as Dylan put it, the elephants.

He’s already there, waiting for me on the wooden bench surrounding the hall’s centerpiece herd of taxidermied elephants. His attempts to appear inconspicuous make him stand out all the more. Black jeans. Black hoodie. Sunglasses over his eyes. I’m surprised museum security isn’t hovering nearby.

“You’re five minutes late,” he says.

“And you look like a spy,” I reply.

Dylan removes the sunglasses and surveys the packed hall. The schoolkids have started to ooze into the area, crowding around the surrounding nature dioramas until all that can be seen of the animals are pointed ears, curved horns, giraffe faces staring lifelessly from the other side of the glass.

“Upstairs,” Dylan says, pointing to the hall’s mezzanine level. “It’s less crowded.”

It is, but only marginally. After climbing the steps to the second floor, we stand before the only empty diorama. A pair of ostriches guarding their eggs from an approaching group of warthogs. The male’s got his head down, wings puffed, beak parted.

“Did you bring Erica’s phone?” Dylan says.

I nod. It’s in the front right pocket of my jeans. My own phone is in the left. Carrying both makes me feel encumbered, weighed down.

“Let me see it.”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m not sure I completely trust you.”

I don’t like the way he’s acting. Everything about Dylan seems jittery, from the way he jingles the keys in his pocket to his constant looking around the hall, as if someone is watching. When he returns his gaze to the diorama, he looks not at the ostriches, which are front and center, but at the encroaching predators. Even though they’ve been dead and stuffed for decades, he gives them a dark-eyed scowl. I think it’s probably intended for me.