Why not?

Too noisy here.

I need to be careful. My suspicion is starting to show. Rather than reply, I grip the phone, my thumbs poised just above the screen. I need to think of a way to get whoever this is to definitively reveal they’re not Ingrid—without realizing they’re doing it.

What’s my nickname? I finally type.

On the screen, the blue dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Ingrid-but-not-Ingrid is thinking. I watch the dots come and go while hoping against hope that when an answer does appear, it will be the correct one.

Juju.

The nickname Ingrid gave me in the park that day.

I want this to be the truth instead of the dreadful-but-likely scenario that’s been in my thoughts ever since talking to Dylan.

The answer finally arrives, announcing itself with a buzz.

Trick question. You don’t have a nickname. Jules is your real name.

I yelp and throw the phone. A quick, frantic toss. Like a firecracker. The phone hits the floor and does a single flip before landing facedown on the sitting room carpet. I collapse onto the crimson sofa, my heart dripping like hot candle wax into the pit of my stomach.

There’s only one person who knows that.

And it’s definitely not Ingrid.

It’s Nick.

35

My phone buzzes again, the sound muted by the carpet.

I stay where I am. I don’t need to see this new text to know the truth. I have my memory.

Me sitting in Nick’s kitchen, my wounded arm freshly clean, him making small talk, asking me if Jules was a nickname.

Most people think it’s short for Julia or Julianne, but Jules is my given name.

Other than Chloe and Andrew, he’s the only person in recent memory who’s been told the story behind my name. How stupid I was, basking in Nick’s attention, enjoying that zap of attraction when he looked into my eyes.

The phone buzzes again.

This time I move, approaching it with caution. Like it’s something that can sting. Rather than pick it up, I flip the phone onto its back and read the texts I’ve missed.

Jules?

You still there?

I’m still staring at the words when there’s a knock on the door. A single, startling rap that makes me look up from the phone and gasp.

A second knock arrives. As nerve-jangling as the first.

Nick’s voice follows. “Jules? Are you home?”

It’s him.

Just on the other side of the door.

Almost as if he’s been summoned by my suspicion.

I don’t answer the door.

I can’t.

Nor can I say anything. A single tremulous word from me will tip him off that I know. About everything.

I turn and face the door, noting the way it’s framed by the sitting room archway. A door within a door.

Then I see the chain dangling from the doorframe.

Just below it is the deadbolt, also in an unlocked position.

In the center of the doorknob itself, the latch lies flat.

The door is completely unlocked.

I leap to my feet and rush toward the foyer, trying to make as little noise as possible. If I don’t answer, maybe Nick will go away.

Instead, he knocks again. I’m in the foyer now, inching closer to the door. The sound—so loud, so close—prompts a startled huff.

I press my back against the door, hoping Nick can’t sense my presence. I can certainly feel his. A disturbance of air mere inches away.

Nick could charge right in if he wanted to. One twist of the doorknob is all it would take.

Luckily, he only talks.

“Jules,” he says. “If you’re there and can hear me, I just want to apologize for this morning. I shouldn’t have brushed off your concern about not being in your apartment all night. It was cavalier of me.”

With my left hand, I reach out to touch the doorknob, my fingers sliding over the unlocked latch at its center.

“Anyway, I also want you to know that I had a really great time last night. It was amazing. All of it.”

I grasp the latch between my thumb and forefinger. Holding my breath, I turn it upward, my left arm twisting at an odd angle. Pain pinches my knuckles.

Then my wrist.

Then my elbow.

I keep turning the latch, millimeter by millimeter.

“As for what happened, well, I don’t want you to think I usually move so fast. I was—”

The lock slides into place with a noticeable click.

Nick hears it and stops, waiting for me to make another sound.

Beside me, the doorknob turns.

He’s testing the lock, moving the knob back and forth.

After another breathless second, he resumes talking.

“I was caught up in the moment. I think we both were. Not that I regret it. I don’t. It’s just, I want you to know I’m not that kind of guy.”

Nick departs. I hear his footsteps retreating. Still, I remain at the door, not moving, afraid he’ll suddenly return.

But I heard what he had to say.

He isn’t that kind of guy.

I believe him.

He’s someone else entirely.

36

I pace the sitting room, crossing back and forth in front of the windows. Outside, night settles over Central Park with silent swiftness, coating it in darkness. Bow Bridge has become a pale strip over black water. A single person strolls across it, oblivious to the fact that she’s being watched.