Page 40 of Lock Every Door

I raise the wine bottle. “I brought you something.”

The door opens wide enough for me to see her outfit of black slacks and a gray sweater. On her feet are pink slippers. The left one taps with impatience as she eyes the bottle.

“It’s an apology gift,” I say. “For bothering you in the lobby yesterday. And right now. And for any future times I might do it.”

Greta takes the bottle and checks the label. It must be a decent vintage, because she doesn’t grimace. I’ll need to thank Chloe for not giving me our usual Two-Buck Chuck as a going-away present. Especially now that Greta has drifted away from the door, leaving it open still wider. I pause on the threshold, moving only after her voice drifts out the gaping door.

“You can come in, or you can leave. It makes no difference to me.”

I decide to enter, the movement prompting a nod from Greta. She turns and moves wordlessly down the hall. I follow, sneaking glances at the apartment’s layout, which is far different from mine. The rooms here are smaller, but there are more of them. A backward lookdown the hall reveals several doors leading to what I assume are an office, a bedroom, maybe a library.

Although, quite honestly, the entire apartment could be considered a library. Books are everywhere. Filling the shelves of the room opposite the door. Sitting on end tables. Rising from the floor in tilted, towering stacks. There’s even a book in the kitchen—a Margaret Atwood paperback splayed facedown on the counter.

“Who are you again?” Greta says as she retrieves a corkscrew from a drawer in the kitchen’s marble-topped island. “There are so many of you apartment sitters coming and going that I can’t keep track.”

“Jules,” I say.

“That’s right. Jules. And my book is your favorite and so on and so forth.”

Greta caps the comment with a mighty pull of the cork. She then fetches a single wineglass, filling it halfway before handing it to me.

“Cheers,” she says.

“You’re not having any?”

“Sadly, I’m not allowed. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have,” Greta says. “Now quit apologizing and drink.”

I take an obligatory sip, mindful about not drinking too much too fast. It could easily happen, considering how anxious I am about talking too much, asking too many questions, annoying Greta more than I already have. I take another sip, this time to calm my nerves.

“Tell me, Jules,” Greta says, “why did you really stop by?”

I look up from my glass. “Do I need an ulterior motive?”

“Not necessarily. But I suspect you have one. In my experience, people don’t arrive bearing gifts unless they want something. A signed copy of their favorite book, for instance.”

“I didn’t bring my copy.”

“A missed opportunity there, wouldn’t you say?”

“But you’re right. I came here for a reason.” I pause to fortifymyself with more wine. “I came here to ask you about Ingrid Gallagher.”

“Who?” Greta asks.

“She’s an apartment sitter. In the unit above you. She left last night. In the middle of the night, actually. And no one knows where she went. And since she mentioned on Instagram that she met you, I thought that, possibly, the two of you were friends and you might know.”

Greta gives me a tilted-head gaze, curiosity brightening her blue eyes. “My dear, I didn’t understand a single word you just said.”

“So you don’t know Ingrid?”

“Are you referring to that girl with the ghastly colored hair?”

“Yes.”

“I met her twice,” Greta says. “Which doesn’t qualify asknowingsomeone. Leslie first introduced us as I was passing through the lobby. And byintroduce, I meanaccost. I think our Mrs. Evelyn was trying to impress the girl into staying here.”

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