I sound calmer now, even though on the inside I’m at full panic. My pulse thrums and my eyelids twitch and more sweat pools inside the brace at my neck.

But I don’t raise my voice.

I don’t talk faster.

If I edge even the tiniest bit toward hysteria, this conversation will be over. I learned that when I talked to the 911 operator.

“She was there one day, gone the next. It was almost as if she had died.”

I pause, giving the statement enough time to settle over Dr. Wagner. When it does, he says, “It sounds to me like you think someone at the Bartholomew was murdered.”

“I do,” I say, before adding the stinger. “Several people.”

TWO DAYS EARLIER

29

When I wake, it’s not George I see outside the window but a different gargoyle. His twin. The one that occupies the south-facing corner. I eye him with suspicion, on the verge of asking him what he did with George.

But then I realize I’m not alone.

Nick is asleep beside me, his face buried in a pillow, his broad back rising and falling.

Which explains the different gargoyle.

And the very different bedroom, which I’m just now noticing.

The previous night comes roaring back. The mad dash from 11A. Kissing downstairs. Then kissing upstairs. Then doing a lot more upstairs. Things I haven’t done since before Andrew and I moved in together and sex became routine rather than exciting.

But last night? That was exciting. And so unlike me.

I sit up to check the clock on the nightstand.

Ten minutes after seven.

I spent the entire night here and not in 12A. Yet another Bartholomew rule I’ve broken.

I slip out of bed naked, shivering in the morning chill and feeling suddenly shy. The old me, who went AWOL last night, is returning with a vengeance. I gather my clothes quietly, trying not to wake Nick until after I’m dressed.

No such luck. I’ve barely slipped on my panties when his voice rises from the bed.

“Are you leaving?”

“Sorry, yeah. I need to go.”

Nick sits up. “You sure? I was going to make you pancakes.”

Rather than attempt to put on my bra with Nick watching, I simply toss it with my shoes before pulling on my blouse.

“Maybe another time.”

“Hey,” Nick says. “Why the rush?”

I gesture to the clock. “I didn’t spend the night in 12A. I broke one of Leslie’s rules.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Seriously, don’t sweat it. The rules are just there to make sure apartment sitters realize this is a serious job.”

Nick gets out of bed, displaying none of my shyness. He moves to the window and stretches, showing off a body so beautiful my knees go weak. I have another of those I-can’t-believe-this-is-real moments that have happened since I moved into the Bartholomew.

“I do realize that,” I say. “Which is why I’m freaking out.”

Nick toes a pair of plaid boxers on the floor, deems them acceptable, and slides them on. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about losing twelve thousand dollars.”

I step into my jeans and give him a quick, close-mouthed kiss, hoping he can’t detect my morning breath. Then, with my shoes and bra in hand, I scamper barefoot down the stairs.

“I had a great time,” he says as he trails behind me.

“I did, too.”

“I’d like to do it again sometime. Any of it.” He flashes a grin the devil would envy. “Or all of it.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Me, too. But not now.”

Nick grips my arm, not letting me leave just yet. “Hey, I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in 11A? I meant to ask last night, but—”

“I didn’t give you a chance,” I say.

“I was all too happy to be distracted,” Nick says.

“I found a book. Heart of a Dreamer.”

“Not surprising. Copies of that are everywhere in this building. Are you sure it was Ingrid’s?”

“Her name was in it,” I say. “Greta signed it for her.”

I’d love to tell Nick more. That I’m surprised Greta never mentioned it during our conversations about Ingrid. That I’m worried she’s suffering from more than just her sudden sleeps. But I also really, really want to get back to 12A, just in case Leslie Evelyn decides to drop by. After last night, I now expect to see her at every inopportune moment.

“We’ll talk later,” I say. “Promise.”

I give him one last kiss and then rush into the hallway. My first walk of shame. Chloe would say it’s about goddamn time, even though I wouldn’t have minded going through life without this particular trek. At least it’s a short one—a barefoot dash from 12B to 12A.

Once inside, I drop my bra and shoes on the foyer floor and toss my keys toward the bowl. But my aim is off yet again, and the keys end up not just on the floor with everything else but on the heating vent, where they skitter, slide, and drop right through.

Fuck.

Wearily, I head to the kitchen, tripping over a rogue shoe in the process. Since I don’t have one of those handy magnet sticks Charlie used, I search the junk drawer for a screwdriver. I end up finding three. I grab all of them, plus a penlight that’s also in the drawer.