Lock Every Door Page 1

Author: Riley Sager

Genres: Thriller , Mystery

Ginny gazed up at the building, her feet planted firmly on the sidewalk but her heart as wide and churning as the sea. Not even in her wildest dreams did she ever think she’d set foot inside this place. To her, it had always felt as far away as a fairy-tale castle. It even looked like one—tall and imposing, with gargoyles gracing the walls. It was the Manhattan version of a palace, inhabited by the city’s elite.

To those who lived outside its walls, it was known as the Bartholomew.

But to Ginny, it was now the place she called home.

Greta Manville, Heart of a Dreamer



Light slices the darkness, jerking me awake.

My right eye—someone’s prying it open. Latex-gloved fingers part the lids, yanking on them like they’re stubborn window shades.

There’s more light now. Harsh. Painfully bright. A penlight, aimed at my pupil.

The same is done to my left eye. Pry. Part. Light.

The fingers release my lids, and I’m plunged back into darkness.

Someone speaks. A man with a gentle voice. “Can you hear me?”

I open my mouth, and hot pain circles my jaw. Stray bolts of it jab my neck and cheek.


My voice is a rasp. My throat is parched. So are my lips, save for a single slick spot of wet warmth with a metallic taste.

“Am I bleeding?”

“You are,” says the same voice as before. “Just a little. Could have been worse.”

“A lot worse,” another voice says.

“Where am I?”

The first voice answers. “A hospital, honey. We’re taking you for some tests. We need to see how banged up you really are.”

It dawns on me that I’m in motion. I can hear the hum of wheels on tile and feel the slight wobble of a gurney I just now realize I’m flat-backed upon. Until now, I had thought I was floating. I try to move but can’t. My arms and legs are strapped down. Something is pythoned around my neck, holding my head in place.

Others are with me. Three that I know of. The two voices, and someone else pushing the gurney. Warm huffs of breath brush my earlobe.

“Let’s see how much you can remember.” It’s the first voice again. The big talker of the bunch. “Think you can answer some questions for me?”


“What’s your name?”

“Jules.” I stop, irritated by the warm wetness still on my lips. I try to lick it away, my tongue flopping. “Jules Larsen.”

“Hi, Jules,” the man says. “I’m Bernard.”

I want to say hello back, but my jaw still hurts.

As does my entire left side from knee to shoulder.

As does my head.

It’s a quick boil of pain, going from nonexistent to screaming in seconds. Or maybe it’s been there all along and only now is my body able to handle it.

“How old are you, Jules?” Bernard asks.

“Twenty-five.” I stop, overcome with a fresh blast of pain. “What happened to me?”

“You were hit by a car, honey,” Bernard says. “Or maybe the car was hit by you. We’re still kind of unclear on the details.”

I can’t help in that department. This is breaking news to me. I don’t recall anything.


“Just a few minutes ago.”


“Right outside the Bartholomew.”

My eyes snap open, this time on their own.

I blink against the harsh fluorescents zipping by overhead as the gurney speeds along. Keeping pace is Bernard. He has dark skin, bright scrubs, brown eyes. They’re kind eyes, which is why I stare into them, pleading.

“Please,” I beg. “Please don’t send me back there.”





The elevator resembles a birdcage. The tall, ornate kind—all thin bars and gilded exterior. I even think of birds as I step inside. Exotic and bright and lush.

Everything I’m not.

But the woman next to me certainly fits the bill, with her blue Chanel suit, blond updo, perfectly manicured hands weighed down by several rings. She might be in her fifties. Maybe older. Botox has made her face tight and gleaming. Her voice is champagne bright and just as bubbly. She even has an elegant name—Leslie Evelyn.

Because this is technically a job interview, I also wear a suit.


Not Chanel.

My shoes are from Payless. The brown hair brushing my shoulders is on the ragged side. Normally, I would have gone to Supercuts for a trim, but even that’s now out of my price range.

I nod with feigned interest as Leslie Evelyn says, “The elevator is original, of course. As is the main staircase. Not much in the lobby has changed since this place opened in 1919. That’s the great thing about these older buildings—they were built to last.”

And, apparently, to force people to invade each other’s personal space. Leslie and I stand shoulder to shoulder in the surprisingly small elevator car. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in style. There’s red carpet on the floor and gold leaf on the ceiling. On three sides, oak-paneled walls rise to waist height, where they’re replaced by a series of narrow windows.