Page 111 of Lock Every Door

I turn around, about to head back inside the library, when a ring bleats from the phone still white-knuckled in my hand.

Dylan calling me back at last.

But when I answer the phone, it’s an unfamiliar voice I hear. A woman, her tone tentative.

“Is this Jules?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Jules, it’s Bobbie.”

“Who?”

“Bobbie. From the shelter.”

And then I remember. Bobbie, the kind and funny woman I spoke with two days ago.

“How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there. New day, new thoughts. All that Eleanor Roosevelt bullshit. But as much as I like to gab, this isn’t a social call.”

My pulse, which was just starting to settle down, revs up again. Excited blood pumps through my veins.

“You found Ingrid?”

“Maybe,” Bobbie says. “A girl just came in. She looks a lot like the girl in that picture you gave me. But there’s a chance it’s not her. She looks more ragged now than in the photo. In all honesty, Jules, she looks like something dead the cat just dragged in.”

“Did she say she was Ingrid?”

“She doesn’t talk much. I tried to buddy up to her, but she wanted none of it. The only thing she told me is that I could go fuck myself.”

That doesn’t sound like Ingrid. Then again, I have no idea what she’s been through in the past few days.

“What color is her hair?”

“Black,” Bobbie says. “A dye job. A crappy one, too. She missed a spot in the back.”

I grip the phone tighter. “Can you see her right now?”

“Yeah. She’s sitting on a cot, legs pulled to her chest, not talking to anyone.”

“That spot she missed in her hair—do you see any color there?”

“Let me look.” Bobbie’s voice becomes muted as she pulls away from her phone to get a better view. “Yeah, there’s some color there.”

“What is it?”

I hold my breath, preparing for disappointment. Considering the way my life has gone, I’ve come to expect it.

“It looks to me like a spot of blue,” Bobbie says.

I exhale.

It’s Ingrid.

“Bobbie, I need you to do me a favor.”

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