Page 19 of Lock Every Door

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, sounding anything but pleased.

“I love your book.Heart of a Dreamerchanged my life. I’ve read it, like, twenty times. That’s not an exaggeration.” I stop myself again, fully aware that I’m gushing. I take a breath, straighten my spine, and say, as calmly as I can, “Do you think you’d be able to sign my copy?”

Greta doesn’t turn around. “You’re not holding my book.”

“I meant later,” I say. “Next time we run into each other.”

“How do you know there’s going to be a next time?”

“Ifwe do, I mean. But I do want to thank you for writing it. Reading it is why I moved to New York. And now I’m here. Temporarily, at least.”

Greta turns away from her mailbox. Slowly. Not too curious, but enough to study me with those keen, inquisitive eyes. Her lips pucker ever so slightly, as if she’s thinking about what to say next.

“A temporary tenant?”

“Yes. Just moved in.”

This prompts a slight nod from Greta, who says, “I imagine Leslie went over the rules?”

“She did.”

“Then I’m sure she told you about not bothering residents.”

I gulp. I nod. Disappointment burrows into my heart.

“She did say residents like their privacy.”

“And so we do,” Greta says. “You might want to keep that in mind the next time we run into each other.”

She shuts the mailbox and edges past me again, our shoulders brushing. I shrink away. In a voice no louder than a murmur, I say, “Sorry for bothering you. I just thought you’d like to know thatHeart of a Dreameris my favorite book.”

Greta spins around in the middle of the lobby, an armful of mail clutched against her chest. Her blue eyes have turned ice cold.

“It’s yourfavoritebook?”

I feel the urge to backtrack. The wordsOne of themform on my tongue, weak and flavorless. I stop myself. If this is the only time I speak to Greta Manville—and it sure seems like it will be, considering how unpleasant she is—then I want her to know the truth.

“It is.”

“If that’s the case,” she says, “then you need to read more.”

The words have the impact of a slap—hot and stinging. I wince. My cheeks turn red. I even sway back on my heels, as if buffeted by a blow. Greta, meanwhile, strides stiff-backed to the elevator, not even bothering to see my reaction.

Knowing she doesn’t even care how the insult affects me somehow makes it feel worse.

Like I’m the least important person in the world.

But then I turn toward the front door and see Charlie standing just inside the lobby. While I don’t think he witnessed my entire conversation with Greta Manville, he at least saw enough to know why I appear so rattled.

Tipping his cap, he says, “While I’m not allowed to speak ill of the residents, I’m also not supposed to turn a blind eye when one of them is rude. And she was very rude to you, Miss Larsen. I apologize on behalf of everyone at the Bartholomew.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve been treated worse.”

“Don’t let it get you down.” Charlie smiles and holds the door open for me. “Now go out and enjoy the beautiful day.”

I step outside and see three girls pressed together for a selfie with the gargoyles above the door. One of them raises her phone and says, “Say ‘Bartholomew’!”

“Bartholomew!” the other two echo in unison.

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