Page 11 of Lock Every Door

“A hospital room, honey.”

Relief washes over me. The kind of blessed relief that brings tears to my eyes. Bernard grabs a tissue, dabs my cheeks.

“There’s no need to cry,” he says. “It’s not that bad.”

He’s right. It’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s wonderful.

I’m safe.

I’m nowhere near theBartholomew.

FIVE DAYSEARLIER

4

In the morning, I give Chloe an extended hug goodbye before taking an Uber into Manhattan. A splurge while carrying my belongings. Not that I have much. I allowed myself exactly one night to move out of the apartment after I found Andrew and his “friend.” There was no crying jag. No screaming loud enough to rattle the walls. I simply said, “Get out. Don’t come back until morning. I’ll be gone by then.”

Andrew didn’t argue, which told me everything I needed to know. Even though I never would have taken him back, I was still surprised he didn’t at least try to save our relationship. He just left. Where he went, I’ll never know. The other girl’s place, I assume. So they could pick up where they had left off.

While he was gone, I methodically packed, choosing what could stay and what I couldn’t live without. A lot was left behind, mostly things I’d purchased with Andrew and didn’t have the energy to fight over. As a result, he got to keep the toaster oven and IKEA coffee table and TV.

At one point during that long, awful night, I considered trashing everything. Just to prove to Andrew that I was also capable of destroying something. But I was too sad and too exhausted to summon such fury. Instead, I settled on shoving every trace of our coupledom into a giant pot on the stove. The photos, the birthday cards, the lovenotes saved from those first heady months together. I lit a match and dropped it on the pile, watching as the flames rose.

Before I left, I dumped the ashes on the kitchen floor.

Another thing Andrew could keep.

But as I packed for the second time in two weeks, I started to wish I had taken more than just clothes, accessories, books, and keepsakes. I was alarmed by how little I own. My entire life now fits into a suitcase and four fifteen-by-twelve storage boxes.

When the car pulls up to the Bartholomew, the driver gives a low whistle, impressed. “You work here or something?”

Technically, that would be a yes. Yet it sounds better to answer with my unofficial job description. “I’m a resident.”

I slip out of the car and gaze at the facade of my temporary home. The gargoyles over the doorway stare back. With their arched spines and open wings, they look ready to hop from their perch to greet me. That duty instead goes to the doorman standing directly beneath them. Tall and bulky, with ruddy cheeks and a Fuller Brush mustache, he’s by my side the moment the Uber driver pops the trunk.

“Let me get those for you,” he says, reaching for the boxes. “You must be Miss Larsen. I’m Charlie.”

I grab my suitcase, wanting to make myself at least a little bit useful. I’ve never lived in a building with a doorman. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

“Likewise. And welcome to the Bartholomew. I’ll take care of your things. You go on inside. Miss Evelyn is expecting you.”

I can’t remember the last time I was expected by someone. It makes me feel more than welcome. It makes me feel wanted.

Sure enough, Leslie is waiting in the lobby. She wears another Chanel suit. Yellow instead of blue.

“Welcome, welcome,” she says cheerily, punctuating it with air kisses on both of my cheeks. Spotting the suitcase, she says, “Is Charlie taking care of the rest of your things?”

“He is.”

“He’s a dream, that Charlie. By far the most efficient of our doormen. But they’re all wonderful in their own right. If you ever need them, they’ll either be outside or right in there.”

She points to a small room just off the lobby. Through the doorway, I glimpse a chair, a desk, and a row of security monitors glowing blue-gray. One of them shows an angled image of two women paused on the checkerboard tile of the lobby. It takes me a second to realize I’m one of them. Leslie is the other. Looking up, I see the camera positioned right over the front door. My gaze drifts back to the security monitor, which now shows me standing alone as Leslie drifts out of view.

I follow her to a wall of mailboxes on the other side of the lobby. There are forty-two of them, labeled the same as the apartments, beginning with 2A. Leslie holds up a tiny key on a plain ring marked 12A.

“Here’s your mail key.”

She gives it to me the way a grandmother hands out hard candy—dropping it directly into my open palm.

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