Page 52 of Lock Every Door

She hits a button, and the elevator takes off, lifting her out of the basement and out of view.

I follow the string of exposed bulbs inside their red-wire confines to the storage units, which line both sides of a mazelike corridor. Each chain-link door bears the number of its corresponding apartment, beginning with 2A.

It reminds me of a dog kennel. A creepy, too-quiet one.

That silence is broken by my phone, which blares suddenly from deep in my pocket. Thinking it might be Ingrid, I grab it and check the number. Even though it’s one I don’t recognize, I answer with a distracted “Hello?”

“Is this Jules?”

It’s a man calling, his voice lazy and light, with a noticeable stoner drawl.

“It is.”

“Hey, Jules. This is Zeke?”

He says his name like it’s a question. Like he doesn’t quite know who he is. But I do. He’s Zeke, Ingrid’s friend from Instagram, calling me at last.

“Zeke, yes. Is Ingrid with you?”

I start my way down the corridor, sneaking glances into units as I pass. Most of them are too tidy to be interesting. Just boxes stacked in orderly rows, their contents announced in scrawled marker. Dishes. Clothes. Books.

“With me?” Zeke says. “Nah. We’re not that close. We met at awarehouse rave in Brooklyn a few years ago and only hung out a few times since then.”

“Have you heard from her today?”

“No. Is she missing or something?”

“It’s just really important that I talk to her.”

Not even Zeke’s slacker voice can hide his growing suspicion. “How do you know Ingrid again?”

“I’m her neighbor,” I say. “Was her neighbor, I guess.”

In one of the units is a twin bed with rails on both sides and the mattress bent in partial incline. On top of it are several stacks of folded sheets coated with a thin layer of dust.

“She moved out of that fancy building already?” Zeke says.

“How do you know she was living at the Bartholomew?”

“She told me.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

That would have been the same day Ingrid took the photo in the park. The one Zeke commented on.

The corridor makes a sudden turn to the left. I follow it, noting the numbers: 8A, 8B. Inside the one for 8C is a dialysis machine on wheels. I know because my mother used one just like it, back when she was near the end. I went with her a few times, even though I hated everything about it. The disinfectant smell of the hospital. The too-white walls. Seeing her attached to a tangle of tubes as her blood ran through them like fruit punch in a Krazy Straw.

I move past the machine, quickening my pace until I’ve reached the other side of the building. I can tell because there’s another trash chute. A dumpster sits below it, although it’s smaller than the other one and, at the moment, empty. To the left of the dumpster is a black door, unmarked.

“What did she say?” I ask Zeke.

“I’m not sure I should tell you anything else,” he says. “I don’t know you.”

“Listen, Ingrid might be in some kind of trouble. I hope she isn’t. But I won’t know for certain until I talk to her. So please tell me what happened.”

The corridor here makes another sharp turn. When I round it, I find myself staring at the storage unit for 10A.

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