Page 13 of Lock Every Door

Another no-brainer.

Alcohol is tolerated if consumed responsibly, which is a relief, seeing how there are two bottles of wine Chloe gifted to me in one of the boxes Charlie’s set to deliver to my door.

“You’re to keep everything in pristine condition at all times,” Leslie says. “If something breaks, contact maintenance immediately. Basically, you need to leave the place looking exactly the way it did when you arrived.”

Other than not allowing visitors, none of this sounds unreasonable. And even the no-visitors policy makes more sense now that Leslie’s explained the reasoning behind it. I begin to think Dylan is right. I have nothing to worry about.

But then Leslie adds another rule. She mentions it offhandedly, as if making it up on the spot.

“Oh, one last thing. As I mentioned yesterday, the residents here enjoy their privacy. Since some of them have a certain renown, we insist that you don’t bother them. Speak only if spoken to. Also, never discuss residents beyond these walls. Do you use social media?”

“Just Facebook and Instagram,” I say. “And both very rarely.”

For the past two weeks, my social media usage has consisted of checking LinkedIn for potential job leads from former co-workers. So far, it hasn’t done me a bit of good.

“Be sure not to mention this place on there. We monitor our apartment sitters’ social media accounts, again for privacy reasons. If the inside of the Bartholomew shows up on Instagram, the person who posted it is forced to leave immediately.” The elevator shimmies to a stop on the top floor. Leslie throws open the grate and says, “Do you have any other questions?”

I do. An important one, only I’m afraid to ask it for fear of sounding indelicate. But then I think about my checking account, which is now fifty dollars lighter after that Uber ride.

And about how I’ll have even less once I buy groceries.

And about the text I got reminding me that my phone bill is past due.

And about the unemployment check I’ll be receiving soon and how long that meager two hundred sixty dollars will last in this neighborhood.

I think of all these things and decide I can’t care about appearing indelicate.

“When do I get paid?” I say.

“A very good question that I’m so glad you asked,” Leslie replies, tactful as always. “You’ll receive your first payment five days from now. A thousand dollars. Cash. Charlie will hand-deliver it to you at the end of the day. He’ll do the same at the end of every week you’re here.”

My body practically melts with relief. I was afraid it wouldn’t be until the end of the month or, worse, after my three months were up. I’m so relieved that it takes an extra moment for the strangeness of the arrangement to sink in.

“Just like that?” I say.

Leslie cocks her head. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“I was expecting a check, I guess. Something to make it more official and less...”

A word Chloe used last night comes to mind.Shady.

“It’s easier this way,” Leslie says. “If you’re uncomfortable with the arrangement or having second thoughts, you can back out now. I won’t be offended.”

“No,” I say. Backing out is not an option. “The arrangement is fine.”

“Excellent. I’ll let you get settled in, then.” Leslie holds up a key ring. Attached to it are two keys, one big, one small. “The big one is to the apartment. The small one opens the storage unit in the basement.”

Instead of dropping it into my hand like the mail key, she places the key ring in my palm before gently curling my fingers around it. Then with a smile and a wink, she returns to the waiting elevator and is lowered out of view.

Alone now, I turn to 12A and take a deep, steadying breath.

This—right now—is my life.

Here.

On the top floor of the Bartholomew.

Holy shit.

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