Page 100 of Lock Every Door

In Pennsylvania. A friend hooked me up with a waitressing job.

I’ve been worried, I write.Why didn’t you call or text back?

This time, a reply comes immediately.

I left my phone on the bus. It took days to get it back.

I wait for more, expecting a flurry of texts as exuberantly descriptive as the way Ingrid talked. But when her response arrives, it’s the opposite. Staid, almost dull.

Sorry for any confusion.

Why did you leave without telling me?

I didn’t have time, Ingrid texts back.Short notice.

But that makes no sense. I was at Ingrid’s door literally minutes before she left. All she did was simply confirm our plans to meet in the park.

Then it hits me—this isn’t Ingrid.

All the relief I felt minutes ago is gone, replaced with a sharp-edged chill that sends pinpricks of dread across my skin.

I’m communicating with the person who made Ingrid disappear.

My first thought is to call the police and let them sort everything out. But Dylan and I have both already gone to the police, with disappointing results. In order for them to get involved, I need more than a hunch that this isn’t Ingrid.

I need proof.

Call me, I type.

The reply is instantaneous.Can’t.

Why not?

Too noisy here.

I need to be careful. My suspicion is starting to show. Rather than reply, I grip the phone, my thumbs poised just above the screen. I need to think of a way to get whoever this is to definitively reveal they’re not Ingrid—without realizing they’re doing it.

What’s my nickname?I finally type.

On the screen, the blue dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Ingrid-but-not-Ingrid is thinking. I watch the dots come and go while hoping against hope that when an answer does appear, it will be the correct one.

Juju.

The nickname Ingrid gave me in the park that day.

I wantthisto be the truth instead of the dreadful-but-likely scenario that’s been in my thoughts ever since talking to Dylan.

The answer finally arrives, announcing itself with a buzz.

Trick question. You don’t have a nickname. Jules is your real name.

I yelp and throw the phone. A quick, frantic toss. Like a firecracker. The phone hits the floor and does a single flip before landing facedown on the sitting room carpet. I collapse onto the crimson sofa, my heart dripping like hot candle wax into the pit of my stomach.

There’s only one person who knows that.

And it’s definitely not Ingrid.

It’s Nick.

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