Chloe was right. It is indeed a strange, alternate universe I’ve stumbled into.

I just hope it’s not also something else she told me: that it’s all probably too good to be true.

25

I spend the next two hours following Greta’s other suggestion and calling the information desks of every hospital in Manhattan. None of them are aware of an Ingrid Gallagher or a Jane Doe matching her description being admitted within the past twenty-four hours.

I’m about to start on hospitals in the outer boroughs when there’s another knock on my door. It’s Charlie this time, standing in the hall with the largest flower arrangement I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so big that Charlie himself is practically invisible behind it. All I see of him is his cap peeking above the blooms.

“Charlie, what will your wife think?”

“Cut it out,” Charlie says, a blush in his voice. “They’re not from me. I’m just the deliveryman.”

I gesture for him to set down the arrangement on the coffee table. As he does, I count at least three dozen blooms. Roses and lilies and snapdragons. Tucked among them is a card.

    Thank you for saving my beloved Rufus! You’re an absolute angel!—Marianne

“I heard you were quite the hero last night,” Charlie says.

“I was just being a good neighbor,” I say. “Speaking of which, how’s your daughter? One of the other doormen told me there was some sort of emergency.”

“It was much ado about nothing. She’s fine now. But it’s nice of you to ask.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty.”

“Still in college?”

“She plans to go,” Charlie says quietly. “Hasn’t worked out quite yet.”

“I’m sure it will.” I take a sniff of the flowers. They smell heavenly. “She’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

Charlie drifts toward the door, seemingly unsure about whether to leave or not. But then he says, “I heard you were asking about that other apartment sitter. The one who left.”

“Ingrid Gallagher. I’m trying to locate her.”

“She’s missing?”

“I haven’t heard from her since she left,” I say. “And I just want to know she’s okay. Did you ever talk to her?”

“Not really,” Charlie says. “I’ve had more interaction with you in the past five minutes than with her the entire time she was here.”

“Leslie told me you were the doorman on duty the night she left but that you never actually saw her leave.”

“I didn’t. I had to step away from the door to deal with the security camera in the basement. There’s a bank of security monitors just off the lobby. It’s always a good idea to have another set of eyes watching the place.”

“Is the footage saved?”

“It’s not,” Charlie says, knowing exactly where my thoughts have headed. “Which is why it was necessary for me to check the monitor in the basement.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It was disconnected. A wire in the back had come loose. The camera was still on, but all I saw on the monitor was a blank screen.”

“How long were you gone?”

“About five minutes. It was an easy fix.”

“Has a camera malfunction ever happened before?” I ask.

“Not on my watch,” Charlie says.

“When did you notice it was out?”

“A little after one a.m.”

My body freezes. That was around the same time I heard the scream and went to check on Ingrid. Five minutes later, she was gone. Which means Ingrid left immediately after I returned to 12A.

The timing seems too convenient to be a coincidence. In fact, the camera being disconnected just as Ingrid left strikes me as being a distraction.

My first thought is that Ingrid did it herself so that she could leave unnoticed—which would make little sense. There’s no rule requiring apartment sitters to remain at the Bartholomew if they don’t want to. And Charlie wouldn’t have stopped her. He probably would have hailed her a cab and wished her well.

Besides, that would have required Ingrid to gather all her belongings, travel to the basement to disconnect the camera, then go back to the eleventh floor so she could then carry her things all the way down to the lobby. That’s a lot of work for something she was well within her right to do, and it surely would have taken more than five minutes. Especially if she arrived at the Bartholomew with a lot of personal belongings.

“Were you on duty when Ingrid moved in?” I say.

Charlie nods.

“How much did she have with her?”

“I can’t really remember,” he says. “Two suitcases, I think. Plus a couple of boxes.”

“Did you see anyone going to the basement before you realized the camera was out?”

“I didn’t. I was outside, attending to another resident.”

“At that hour? Who was it?”

Charlie straightens his spine, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think Mrs. Evelyn will like that I’m telling you so much. I want to help, but—”

“I know, I know. The building’s big on privacy. But Ingrid’s basically the same age as your daughter. If she were missing, you’d be asking a lot of questions, too.”