Page 135 of Lock Every Door

I gasp again as I yank the knife away.

Nick doesn’t.

He can only moan as blood soaks his shirt, the fabric changing from white to red in seconds. Then Nick hits the floor. A swift, uninterrupted drop.

I back away from him and the blood that’s quickly spreading across the floor. That backward shuffle takes me through the bookcase passage into the study of 12A. There I do another shoulder nudge to close the bookcase. Before it lumbers into place, I take one final, fleeting glance into Nick’s apartment. He’s still on the floor, still bleeding, still alive.

But probably not for long.

I let the bookcase fall back into place without a second glance.

Almost free.

Inside 12A, all traces of my existence are gone. The apartment looks just as it did when I first set foot inside it. Uninhabited. Devoid of life.

But it’s also a trap.

I know that now.

I should have known it then.

This perfect apartment with its perfect views inside a perfect building. It was all designed to be as enticing as possible to someonelike me, who started out poor and stayed that way. What’s worse is that this isn’t a recent development. It’s always been the sole purpose of the Bartholomew. The only reason the building exists is to serve the rich and trap the poor.

Those servants laid out like firewood. Cornelia Swanson’s maid. Dylan and Erica and Megan and all those other men and women without families who were lured here with the promise of a reset button for their sad lives.

They deserve closure.

Even more, they deserve vengeance.

Which means only one thing.

This whole fucking place needs to be burned to the ground.

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I start with the study, pulling books at random from the shelves to form a pile in the middle of the floor. When I’m done, I grab the copy ofHeart of a DreamerGreta signed for Erica and hold the lighter to a corner of its dust jacket.

Fire tears across the book.

I drop it onto the pile and walk away.

In the sitting room, I remove the cushions from the crimson sofa. One is shoved under the coffee table, where I use the lighter to set it ablaze.

In the dining room, I repeat the process—place a cushion under that ridiculously long table, light it, leave.

In the kitchen, I stuff the cushion into the oven and crank up the heat.

Sitting on the table in the breakfast nook is another copy ofHeart of a Dreamer. I turn to the page Greta signed for me and, with a flick of my thumb, light it up. I wait for a flame to bloom before dropping it down the dumbwaiter shaft.

After that, it’s up to the bedroom, with me climbing the spiral steps as fast as my battered body will allow. On the nightstand is one final copy ofHeart of a Dreamer. My real copy, first read to me by Jane as we lay on her bed.

I scoop it up and carry it back downstairs.

By the time I’ve reached the foyer, the apartment has filled withsmoke. Already the fires have grown out of control. A glance down the hall reveals flames crawling across the floor of the study. In the sitting room, tongues of fire lick at the underside of the coffee table while smoke rises from its surface. A light crackling sound in the dining room tells me the table there is meeting a similar fate.

Satisfied, I open the door and leave 12A for the last time.

I keep the apartment door open as I move down the hallway, letting smoke billow out behind me. At the elevator, I press the down button. While waiting for it to arrive, I go to the nearby trash chute. I then flick the lighter and hold it just below the final copy ofHeart of a Dreamer.

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