Lock Every Door(17)

Innocuous or not, here I am, hurrying past Charlie into the lobby. “I’ve got them. But I won’t say no to being helped with the elevator.”

I look across the lobby and see the elevator car descending into its gilded cage. Hoping to catch it before someone on an upper floor can claim it, I dash forward, grocery bags shimmying and Charlie struggling to match my pace. I’m almost at the elevator when I spot a young woman flying down the stairs right beside it. She’s in a hurry. Legs churning. Head down. Eyes on her phone.

“Whoa! Look out!” Charlie shouts.

But it’s too late. The girl and I collide in the middle of the lobby. The crash sends us ricocheting off each other. The girl stumbles backward. I fall completely, slamming against the lobby floor as both grocery bags spring from my grip. Although a sharp pain shoots through my elbow and down my left arm, I’m more worried about the sight of my groceries scattered across the lobby. Thin sticks of dried spaghetti cover the floor like strands of hay. Nearby is a shattered jar oozing sauce. Oranges roll through the puddle, leaving trails of red.

The girl is by my side in an instant. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I’m so clumsy!”

Even though she tries to help me up, I remain on the floor, scrambling to shove my groceries back into the bags before others can see them. But the collision has already drawn a small crowd. There’s Charlie, of course, who hurriedly gathers the fallen groceries, and Marianne Duncan returning from taking Rufus for a walk. She stands in the doorway as Rufus yaps. The commotion brings Leslie Evelyn rushing out of her office to see what’s happened.

Mortified, I try to ignore them all while continuing to collect my groceries. When I reach for one of the rogue oranges, another bolt of pain zaps through my arm.

The girl gasps. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just tomato sauce,” I say.

Only it’s not. I sneak a glance at my arm and see a long gash just below my elbow. Blood streams from the wound in a thick rivulet that goes all the way to my knuckles. The sight makes me so dizzy I momentarily forget about the pain. It comes back only when Charlie yanks a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and presses it to the wound.

Looking around, I see chunks of broken glass scattered across the floor. I can only assume one of them dug into my arm while I was scrambling for the groceries.

“Sweetie, you need to see a doctor,” Leslie says. “Let me take you to the emergency room.”

That would be a fine idea, if I could afford it. But I can’t. Part of my severance package included two more months of health insurance, but even that comes with a hundred-dollar co-pay for an emergency room visit.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m starting to think I’m not. The handkerchief Charlie gave me is already crimson with blood.

“You should at least see Dr. Nick,” Leslie says. “He’ll be able to tell if you need stitches or not.”

“I don’t have time to go to a doctor’s office.”

“Dr. Nick lives here,” Leslie says. “Twelfth floor. Same as you.”

Charlie stuffs the last of my groceries into the mangled bags. “I’ll take care of these for you, Miss Larsen. Go on up and see Dr. Nick.”

Leslie and the girl help me to my feet, lifting me by my good arm. Before I can protest, they’re ushering me into the elevator. Only two of us can fit, which means the girl remains outside the cage.

“Thank you, Ingrid,” Leslie says before sliding the grate shut. “I can take it from here.”

I stare at the girl through the grate, surprised. This is Ingrid? Although we look to be roughly the same age, she’s dressed like someone younger. Oversize plaid shirt. Distressed jeans that reveal pink knees. Converse sneakers with the left laces coming undone. Her hair is dark brown but had previously been dyed blue. A two-inch strip of color fans out across her back and shoulders.

Ingrid catches me staring, bites her bottom lip, and gives me an embarrassed wave, her fingers wiggling.

Inside the elevator, Leslie hits the button for the top floor and up we go.

“You poor girl,” she says. “I’m so sorry about this. Ingrid’s a lovely girl, but she can also be oblivious to what’s going on around her. I’m sure she feels terrible. But don’t worry. Dr. Nick will fix you right up.”

Soon we’re at the door to 12B, Leslie giving it a series of rapid-fire knocks while I continue to press Charlie’s blood-soaked handkerchief against my arm. Then the door opens, and Dr. Nick stands before us.

I was expecting someone older but distinguished. Gray hair. Moist eyes. Tweed jacket. But the man at the door is a good forty years younger and a lot better looking than the doctor of my imagination. His hair is auburn. His eyes are hazel, set off by glasses with tortoiseshell frames. His outfit of khakis and a crisp white shirt reveals a tall, trim physique. He looks less like a doctor than an actor playing one on Marianne Duncan’s old soap opera.

“What do we have here?” he says, his gaze moving from Leslie to me and my bloody arm.

“Accident in the lobby,” Leslie tells him. “Do you think you could take a quick look and see if Jules here needs to go to the ER?”

“I don’t,” I say.

Dr. Nick gives me a clipped smile. “Maybe I should be the judge of that, don’t you think?”