Marianne peeks into the hallway, checking to see if anyone else is around. Only one other person is—a workman just outside Mr. Leonard’s door, blowing his nose into a red handkerchief.

“I mean, I knew who she was,” Marianne says, her voice going so quiet it flirts with being a whisper. “And I knew that she left. But we weren’t formally introduced.”

“So the two of you never spoke?”

“Never. I think I saw her only a few times, when I was taking Rufus for his morning walk.”

“I heard you and Rufus went to the lobby the night she left.” Again, it’s not the subtlest of transitions. But there’s no telling how long Marianne’s sharing mood is going to last. “Did you see or hear her go? Or maybe see someone else up and about at that hour?”

“I—” Marianne stops herself, changing course. “No. I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Being here gives me déjà vu. Marianne has the same say-one-thing-mean-another demeanor Ingrid displayed the night she disappeared. When she answers me with a simple “Yes,” the word slides uncertainly off her tongue. She hears how it sounds and tries again, mustering more force. “Yes. I’m sure I saw nothing that night.”

Marianne’s got one hand on the door now, her gloved fingers flexing against the wood. When she raises her other hand to the brim of her hat, I see that it’s trembling. She gives the hallway another up-and-down glance and says, “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

“Marianne, wait—”

She tries to close the door, but I desperately slide my foot against the frame, blocking it. I peer at her through the six-inch gap that remains.

“What aren’t you telling me, Marianne?”

“Please,” she hisses, her face still hidden in shadow. “Please stop asking questions. No one here is going to answer them.”

Marianne pushes the door against my foot, forcing me to pull it away. Then the door slams shut in another perfume-soaked rush. I stumble backward, suddenly aware of someone else in the hallway with me. Twisting away from Marianne’s door, I see Leslie Evelyn standing a few yards down the hall. She’s just returned from a yoga class. Lululemon tights. Rolled-up mat under her arm. Thin line of sweat sparkling along her hairline.

“Is there a problem here?”

“No,” I say, even though she clearly saw Marianne slam the door in my face. “No problem at all.”

“Are you sure? Because it looks to me like you’re bothering one of the tenants, which you know is strictly against the rules.”

“Yes, but—”

Leslie silences me with a raised hand. “There aren’t exceptions to these rules. We thoroughly discussed them when you moved in.”

“We did. I was just—”

“Breaking them,” Leslie says. “Honestly, I expected more from you, Jules. You were such a well-behaved temporary tenant.”

Her use of the past tense stops my heart a moment.

“Are . . . are you kicking me out?”

Leslie says nothing at first, making me wait for the answer. When it arrives—“No, Jules, I’m not”—I let out a grateful sigh.

“Normally I would,” she adds. “But I’m taking your past behavior into account. I saw how you helped both Greta and Rufus get out of the building last night. So did the newspapers, apparently. I’d be a cruel person if I made you leave after such a good deed. But what I am is strict. So if I see you bothering Marianne, or any of the residents, again—about anything—I’m afraid you’ll have to go. Apartment sitters who don’t follow the rules seldom get a second chance. And they never get a third.”

“I understand,” I say. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I still haven’t heard from Ingrid, and I’m worried something bad happened.”

“Nothing bad happened to her,” Leslie says. “At least not within these walls. She left willingly.”

“How do you know that for sure?”

“Because I was in her apartment. There were no signs of a struggle. Nor was anything left behind.”

Only she’s wrong about that. Ingrid did leave without something—a Glock that’s now stowed under the kitchen sink in 12A. Which means Leslie could also be wrong about Ingrid not leaving other things behind. Even though she didn’t arrive with much—two suitcases and a couple of boxes, according to Charlie—it was more than what Ingrid could handle on her own. It would take me at least three trips to move my own meager belongings from 12A.

I apologize to Leslie once more and hurry away, suddenly seized with the idea that some of Ingrid’s things could still be in 11A. Shoved in the back of a closet. Under a bed. Someplace where Leslie wouldn’t immediately notice them. And among those possibly hidden items could be something indicating not only where Ingrid went but who she was running from.

I won’t know with certainty unless I look for myself. Not an easy task. I can think of only one other way inside, and even that requires the help of someone else. Adding to the difficulty is that it needs to be done quickly and quietly.

Because now I have another, unexpected worry to contend with.

Leslie is watching my every move.

27

I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Nick says.