I click, and the screen is filled with articles about the ill-fated Dr. Bartholomew. The first link takes me to the same New York Times article I’d read a few days ago.

TRAGEDY STRIKES BARTHOLOMEW

I go back to the search page and keep scrolling, not stopping until I find something that doesn’t seem to address the death of Dr. Bartholomew. Clicking the link, I’m taken to a listing for the Bartholomew in a no-frills directory of Manhattan real estate. It’s nothing more than the building’s name, address, and a dusting of facts.

Year built: 1919

Number of units: 44

Owner: This building is privately owned and operated by the Bartholomew family. No public records regarding building value, annual profit, and income or estimated price per unit could be found.

I close the web browser and try a different approach, scrolling once more through Erica’s old texts. There’s little of interest. Just routine exchanges with friends or arranging trysts with Dylan. It’s the same with her call log. In the days leading to her disappearance, Erica called only Hunan Palace and Dylan.

But she did receive a call from Ingrid on October third.

The day before she disappeared.

I quickly swipe to Erica’s voicemail, bypassing the ones Dylan and I listened to in the park. Just beyond them is a message we didn’t get to.

I tap it and hear Ingrid’s voice, hushed and worried.

    I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday, so I did a little digging. And you’re right. There’s something deeply weird going on here. I still don’t exactly know what it is, but I’m starting to get really freaked out. Call me.

Erica never called back, which means she either talked to Ingrid in person or thought returning the call wasn’t important. I suspect it was the former. Ingrid’s message sounds too worried to ignore. Which makes me wonder about not just what Erica told her but what Ingrid discovered afterward. Unfortunately, neither of them is around to provide an answer.

I put down Erica’s phone and pick up my own. I then text Ingrid, even though I already know she’s not going to respond. I do it out of desperation, on the unlikely chance that, of the dozens of texts I’ve sent in the past few days, this will finally be the one she sees and replies to.

If you’re out there and can see this, PLEASE respond. I need to talk to you about the Bartholomew and Erica and what you know about both. It’s important.

I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, lean back on the crimson sofa, and stare at the wall. Unlike Greta, I can’t choose what I see in the patterned wallpaper. They’re faces, whether I like it or not.

Right now, they watch me passively, their dark mouths dropped open, as if they’re trying to talk, laugh, or sing. Shifting nervously in their gaze, I close my eyes. Silly, I know. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t see me.

My eyes snap open when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.

A text has arrived.

I pick it up, shock turning my body cold when I see who it’s from.

Ingrid.

Hi, Jules. Please don’t be worried. I’m fine.

Relief rushes through me. It starts at my hands and feet before coursing into my limbs, warm and glorious.

I was wrong. About everything. Ingrid isn’t dead or kidnapped. And if there’s a logical explanation for her absence, then there are possibly ones for what happened to Erica and Megan.

What I need to know now, though, is what that explanation is.

I send three texts in response, my still-warm fingers flying over the screen.

Where are you?

Are you OK?

What is going on?

A minute passes with no response. After two more go by, I start to pace back and forth across the sitting room. I occupy myself by counting my steps. I get to sixty-seven before three blue dots appear on the phone’s screen, rippling like a tiny wave. Ingrid typing her reply.

In Pennsylvania. A friend hooked me up with a waitressing job.

I’ve been worried, I write. Why didn’t you call or text back?

This time, a reply comes immediately.

I left my phone on the bus. It took days to get it back.

I wait for more, expecting a flurry of texts as exuberantly descriptive as the way Ingrid talked. But when her response arrives, it’s the opposite. Staid, almost dull.

Sorry for any confusion.

Why did you leave without telling me?

I didn’t have time, Ingrid texts back. Short notice.

But that makes no sense. I was at Ingrid’s door literally minutes before she left. All she did was simply confirm our plans to meet in the park.

Then it hits me—this isn’t Ingrid.

All the relief I felt minutes ago is gone, replaced with a sharp-edged chill that sends pinpricks of dread across my skin.

I’m communicating with the person who made Ingrid disappear.

My first thought is to call the police and let them sort everything out. But Dylan and I have both already gone to the police, with disappointing results. In order for them to get involved, I need more than a hunch that this isn’t Ingrid.

I need proof.

Call me, I type.

The reply is instantaneous. Can’t.