Chapter 83
I hurry through the corridor, which is really nothing more than a tight space between the walls of my apartment and the one next door.
Cobwebs fill the gaps between the studs.
Here and there, a spider scuttles away, alarmed by my passage.
A faint odor hangs in the air, musty and acidic, like a mix of mold and urine, probably from rats.
Which makes sense, because they would only use this secret space when someone was living in my apartment.
Most of the time, this narrow corridor belongs to the rodents and insects that are impossible to keep out of buildings this old in the city.
As I go, it occurs to me that even if Jennifer feigns forgetfulness, the others may still suspect that she let me go on purpose.
I wonder if she didn’t think about this, or if she’s past caring.
Not that it matters, because I don’t care.
She’s a killer just like the rest of them, and growing a conscience on your fourth murder isn’t much of a redemption.
I reach the door on the other side of the passageway and push. It swings open with ease, and then I’m in Jennifer and Frank’s apartment, standing next to the fireplace.
I stop and listen, ready to flee back into the walls if Frank is here.
The gun is heavy in my hand.
From somewhere else in the apartment, I hear the steady ticktock of an old mechanical clock, but nothing else.
I turn to the bookcase and push it closed again.
I start toward the foyer, hurrying through the living room, but then I stop.
The door to the second bedroom was closed the last time I was here, but now it’s open.
I see a desk against the wall, upon which is an old desktop computer.
Mounted above it is a large monitor. On the screen is my living room, and Jennifer pacing back and forth with a phone clutched in one hand.
I don’t have time for this, but I can’t help myself.
I change course, step into the bedroom, and stare at the monitor.
The view of my living room is from a high vantage point near the corner of the room, right around one of the recessed lights.
Five boxes labeled cam1 through 5 are at the bottom of the screen. I grab the mouse and click cam2.
The scene changes to show the main bedroom, again from a high vantage point, although this time I can’t pinpoint the location.
I click again. Another view appears, this time of the spare bedroom.
Cam4 shows a view of the dining room. One camera to go.
I click it, and a view of my kitchen comes up on the screen.
The implications of what I’ve found leave me reeling.
It’s no wonder I felt uneasy in that apartment, because even when Sam wasn’t there, I was never alone.
And with that hidden entrance behind the living room bookcase, anyone could access my apartment whenever they wanted.
That’s why the mood board went missing. They did it deliberately to leave me questioning my sanity.
It’s also how Kalina’s earring ended up next to the bed.
She didn’t lose it in the throes of wild passion with my fiancé.
They planted it there so I would find it.
One last piece of proof that Sam was cheating on me.
And all the while, Dawn and Jamie were living in the building opposite, ready to lend a sympathetic ear and steer me in whatever direction Catherine wanted.
I click back to the first camera. Jennifer has stopped pacing.
She’s talking on her cell phone, presumably letting the others know that I’ve escaped.
There’s no sound on the camera, but I can imagine her saying how she stepped away for a moment to get a glass of water, and when she came back, I forced her to let me go.
I wish she had given me a little more time to make it to the lobby and get out of the building, but it’s also my fault for stopping and looking at the monitor.
I should have ignored it and kept running.
I need to get out of here right now. But when I turn to flee, my gaze settles on a notebook sitting next to the computer keyboard.
Jacqueline Burke’s notebook that I found behind the drawer in my dining room.
I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, was Frank really going to give incriminating evidence to the cops?
He probably didn’t even have the detective’s number.
It was all a ruse to get the notebook before I could take it to the police myself.
It doesn’t matter. My only concern right now should be getting out of the Glendale before Catherine and her sick co-conspirators find and kill me.
I turn and race back through the apartment and out into the hallway. From somewhere below me, I hear the wheezing clunk of the old cage elevator car making its way up to the penthouse apartment. It will take a little while to get there, which buys me some time, but not much.
I reach the door leading out on the fourth-floor landing and tug it open, ignoring how it bangs back against the wall—stealth is pointless now—and then I’m on the stairs.
Above me, I hear footsteps. Someone is coming down from the penthouse.
I pick up the pace, jumping the last three steps to the third-floor landing, then propelling myself down the next flight.
The sound of footsteps above me is growing closer.
I hear a shout. It’s the doctor, which makes sense because he’s probably the person most suited to a mad dash down so many flights of stairs.
But the others won’t be far behind. My only advantage is that the old rickety elevator doesn’t move very fast.
By the time I get to the second-floor landing, my heart is practically thumping out of my chest and my breath is ragged. I’m too out of shape for this. And I still feel a little dizzy from the drug they gave me. I make a pact with myself that if I live past tonight, I’m hitting the gym.
One flight of stairs to go.
I fly down it, my hope of escape rising the closer I get to the ground floor.
But then my foot misses a step, and I pitch forward, arms flailing.
For one dreadful moment, I think I’m going to tumble headfirst down the remaining stairs, but then my hand finds the banister and my fingers close around it, stopping my forward momentum.
I teeter for a second, fighting gravity, and then I regain my balance.
Thankfully, I didn’t fall, but the mishap has cost me valuable seconds. My pursuer is closer now. I take off again, being careful not to miss another step, until I reach the lobby.
Almost there.
Just another thirty feet to the main doors, and beyond that, the street.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to flag down a passing car, because even at this time of night, there’s always someone around in the city.
I’m barely halfway across the lobby when a figure steps out from the darkness of the mailroom and blocks my path.
It’s Angelo, the doorman.
“Everything okay, miss?” he asks. “It’s awfully late for you to be up and about.”
I’m overcome by a sweeping sense of relief.
This is even better than flagging down some random motorist. Angelo will have a phone.
He can call the police. But then a creeping dread replaces my elation, because something isn’t right.
Angelo finished work at eleven and shouldn’t be back until morning.
What is he doing skulking around in the mailroom in the early hours?
The answer is obvious. He’s a part of this.
I stop and raise the gun. “Get out of my way.”
“I can’t do that, miss.” Angelo takes a step toward me.
“I mean it. I will shoot.” The gun feels strange in my hand. Unnatural.
“You won’t shoot me,” Angelo says. His face is hard as granite.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s right, but then I think about the people in this building and what they plan to do. How they want to wash enough pills to kill a horse down my throat with wine from my own fridge, then dump my naked body in the bathtub for Sam to find.
That’s all it takes.
I pull the trigger.