I try to act flattered, clutching the book to my chest and pretending to be as thrilled as I truly would have been if Greta had done this a day or so ago. In truth, I want this book as far away from me as possible.

“I’m honored,” I say. “Truly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Greta continues to give me a concerned look. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“To be honest, I’m not feeling well.” Since faking enthusiasm didn’t work, I might as well try an excuse that’s slightly closer to the truth. “I think a cold is coming on. It always happens when the seasons start to change. I thought the tea would help, but I think what I really need is to lie down for a bit.”

If Greta sees through my attempt to get her out of the apartment, she doesn’t show it. She simply downs the rest of her tea, hoists the tote bag onto her shoulder, and shuffles out of the kitchen. At the door, she says, “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

I force a smile. “Not unless I check on you first.”

“Ah, so it’s now a contest,” Greta says. “I accept the challenge.”

With that, she slips out the door, giving me a little wave on her way to the elevator. As soon as she’s gone, I close the door and hurry down the hall to the bookshelf in the study. There, I grab the copy of Heart of a Dreamer I found my first day here and flip to the title page.

Seeing it creates a strange expansion in my chest. My heart exploding into jagged shards.

I gave Greta an opportunity to tell me the truth, and she refused to take it. I don’t know why. Nor do I know what it means.

All I know is that the title page of this book bears not just Greta’s handwriting but the exact same inscription she wrote in two other copies. The only difference is the names.

Mine in one.

Ingrid’s in another.

And now this.

    Darling Erica,

Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life!

Best wishes,

Greta Manville

34

I tell myself it means nothing.

That this is what Greta writes in every copy she signs.

That there are hundreds of women out there with books bearing this very inscription.

That she certainly didn’t befriend Erica and Ingrid like she did me. That she didn’t invite them in, take them to lunch, tell them about her past, and then—what? Kill them? Abduct them?

Of course not.

She’s not capable of that. Not physically. Not mentally.

Greta Manville, by virtue of age and infirmity, is harmless.

Then why did she lie? There’s nothing suspicious about signing books. Greta’s an author. It comes with the territory. If she had simply admitted to signing copies for Ingrid and Erica, I would have thought nothing of it, even with the knowledge that both are now missing. It’s her lie that has me freaking out right now.

My hope is that Greta feels a misguided sense of protection. She knows what I’ve gone through. I’ve told her all my sad tales. It’s likely she pities me and fears that my knowing about the copies signed for the others would make me feel less special. As if thinking I’m her favorite will somehow make up for all the shitty things in my past.

Or maybe Greta knew Ingrid better than she’s let on. Erica, too. She was friendly with both, knows they’re now missing, and understands that being associated with either of them might drag her unwillingly into a search. It doesn’t mean she’s involved in their disappearances. Nor does it mean she doesn’t care if they’re found. She just doesn’t have the time, energy, or stamina to look for them the same way I’m doing.

Those two explanations are eclipsed by a third—that Greta is hiding something.

She already told me Ingrid went to see her, allegedly to ask about the Bartholomew’s unsettling past. What if that was also a lie? What if Ingrid knocked on Greta’s door asking not about the building but about Erica?

It’s not as outlandish as it sounds. I ended up on Greta’s doorstep seeking information about Ingrid. Which makes it possible she did the same in regard to Erica. Maybe, like I did, she had reason to believe Greta and Erica were friends.

On the flip side, maybe Ingrid did ask Greta about the Bartholomew, because she suspected Erica had done the same thing. Iffy but still possible. In order for that logic to hold, I need something to suggest Erica had also been looking into the building’s past.

I return to the crimson sofa with Erica’s phone, opening the web browser to check her bookmarked sites and browsing history. The bookmarks are typical for a young woman in Manhattan. The MTA schedule, a local weather site, a handful of takeout menus. Her browser history, however, is empty, meaning Erica cleared it. Of course. It was ridiculous of me to expect a browser history filled with incriminating searches about the Bartholomew’s dark past.

Rather than close the browser, which I should do, or toss the phone across the room, which is what I want to do, I start a Google search. No, Erica didn’t save her browser history, but there’s a chance she used the autocomplete function, which automatically types frequently queried topics into the search bar.

I start with the Bartholomew. Just typing in a single T brings up a familiar name: Thomas Bartholomew—the doctor who designed and built this place, only to leap from its roof half a year later. Erica was clearly reading up on him.