Page 24 of Lock Every Door

“Thank you. Losing them both so suddenly was hard. And I sometimes feel guilty knowing that if they hadn’t died, I’d be living in some Brooklyn walk-up right now, and not in one of the most famous buildings on the planet. In some ways, I feel like I’m also an apartment sitter. Just watching this place until my parents come home.”

Dr. Nick finishes taking my blood pressure and says, “One twenty over eighty. Perfect. You seem to be in excellent health, Jules.”

“Thanks again, Doc—” I stop myself before I can finish the word. “Nick. I appreciate it.”

“It was no problem at all. Not to mention the neighborly thing to do.”

He leads me back into the hall, where I get turned around by the opposite layout of the one in 12A. Instead of making a right, I go left, accidentally taking a few steps toward a door at the end of the hallway. It’s wider than the others, locked in place with a deadbolt. After a quick spin, I’m back on track, following Nick to the front door.

“I’m sorry for being nosy earlier,” I tell him once we’re in the foyer. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I have plenty of good memories that balance out the bad. Besides, my story isn’t uncommon. I think every family has at least one big tragedy.”

He’s wrong there.

Mine has two.

9

My phone buzzes as I leave Nick’s apartment. It’s an email from Chloe, which I give a cursory glance while unlocking the door to 12A. The subject line prompts an annoyed sigh.

Scary stuff.

There’s no message. Just a link to a website that, when I click on it, brings me to an article with a headline that’s ominously blunt.

THE CURSE OF THE BARTHOLOMEW

Rather than read the article, I shove the phone back into my pocket and push into 12A, where I toss my keys into the bowl on the foyer table. Only, my aim is off and the keys end up hitting the edge of the table before clattering onto a heating vent in the foyer floor. An antique grate covers the vent—all cast-iron curlicues with gaps between them wide enough for the keys to tumble right through.

Which they do.

Instantly.

I drop to my hands and knees and peer into the grate, seeing mostly darkness within.

This isn’t good. Not good at all. I wonder if losing keys is also against the rules. Probably.

I still have my face pressed to the grate when there’s a knock on the door. Charlie’s voice rises from the other side.

“Miss Larsen, you in there?”

“I’m here,” I say as I lift myself off the floor. Before opening the door, I smooth a hand across my cheek, just in case the grate left any marks on my face.

I whip open the door to see Charlie on the threshold, two large grocery bags in his arms. Unlike the torn and mangled ones from the lobby, these are pristine.

“I thought you might need these,” he says.

I take one of the bags and carry it to the kitchen. Charlie follows with the other. Inside are replacements of every item damaged in my collision with Ingrid. New economy-size box of pasta. New jar of sauce. New oranges and frozen pizza. There’s even the addition of a bar of dark chocolate. The decadent, expensive kind.

“I tried to salvage what you had bought, but I’m afraid not much survived,” Charlie says. “So I made a quick trip to the store.”

I stare at the groceries, touched beyond words. “Charlie, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was nothing,” he says. “I have a daughter your age. I hate the thought of her going hungry for a few days. I’d be a terrible father if I let the same happen to you.”

I’m not surprised he knows I couldn’t afford to replace all the groceries. He saw what I had purchased. All of it implied the tightest of budgets.

“How much do I owe you?”

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