Page 117 of Lock Every Door

Four rings.

After zooming across one more block, the cab screeches to a haltat a red light. I’m thrust forward, barely avoiding the plexiglass barrier between the back seat and the front. The phone drops from my trembling hands.

It keeps ringing, the sound distant and tinny on the cab floor. The ringing stops, replaced by Dylan’s outgoing voicemail message.

“This is Dylan. You know what to do.”

I snatch the phone from the floor, practically shouting into it.

“Dylan, I found Ingrid. She’s safe. She doesn’t know where Erica is. But you need to get out of there. Right now.”

In the front seat, the cabbie looks up and gives me a curious glance in the rearview mirror. Arched brows. Creased forehead. Already he’s regretting picking me up. He’ll regret it even more in a minute.

I look away and keep shouting into my phone, the words tumbling out.

“I’m on my way there now. If you can, meet me outside. I’ll explain the rest after we leave.”

I end the call as the light changes and the cab speeds forward again, hurtling us through Columbus Circle at a dizzying pace. On the right, the buildings fall away, replaced with the tree-studded expanse of Central Park.

Thirteen blocks to go.

I send Dylan a text.

CALL ME.

I immediately send another, more urgent one.

YOU’RE IN DANGER.

We zip by one more block. Twelve more remain.

I tell myself to stay calm, stay focused.

Don’t panic.

Think.

That’s what will get me out of this mess. Not panicking. Panic only breeds more panic.

But thinking—calm, rational thought—will work wonders. Only, rational thought is impossible after I check my watch. Ten minutes spent in this cab and I’m not even halfway there.

Time to bail.

When the cab stops at the next light, I throw open the passenger door and leap out. The driver starts shouting at me, words I can’t make out because I’m too busy scrambling past cars in other lanes on my way to the sidewalk. Behind me, the cabbie honks his horn. Two quick, angry honks followed by a lengthy one that follows me up the block.

I still hear it as I run across the street.

Eleven blocks to go.

I keep running, my pace quickening to a full sprint. Most people hear me coming and step out of the way. Those who don’t are shoved aside.

I ignore their hard stares and angry gestures as I pass. All I can focus on is getting to the Bartholomew as fast as possible and, once I’m there, leaving just as quickly.

Stay calm.

Stay focused.

Get in.

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