Lock Every Door(42)

“No way,” he said. “That’s not how he operates.”

But as much as having the gun here puts me on edge, I’m hesitant to get rid of it until I hear back from Ingrid. She left it behind for a reason.

The fact that Ingrid had it at all brings up a scary prospect. One that completely smashes the idea she left because she was too scared of the Bartholomew’s strange past to stay here. A gun is a weapon. Self-defense. You don’t need one to protect yourself from a building, even if you somehow think it’s haunted. You can’t shoot a ghost. Or a curse, for that matter.

But you can shoot a person you suspect is trying to do you harm.

I’m suddenly reminded of all the places she said she’d been. Boston and New York, Seattle and Virginia.

Maybe Ingrid wasn’t simply restless.

Maybe she was running.

And whoever she was running from had tracked her down, forcing her to flee once more.

My thoughts flash back to last night and those awkward few minutes I spent outside Ingrid’s door. Looking back on it, I wonder if everything I had found unusual—the fake smile, the hand digging into her pocket, the single blink when I tried to make eye contact—was her way of telling me something she couldn’t say aloud.

That she wasn’t fine.

That she needed to leave the Bartholomew.

That saying anything else—even a single word—wouldn’t be in either of our best interests.

Now Ingrid is gone, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m partly to blame. If I had been more forceful or nosier, then maybe she would have felt able to confide in me about what was going on.

Maybe I could have helped her.

Maybe I still can.

I return the gun and the ammunition to the shoe box the same way I removed them—cautiously. I then cover the box with its lid and carry the whole thing downstairs to the kitchen, where I shove it in the cupboard under the sink. Better there than in the bedroom, where I’m certain it would keep me up all night.

I check my watch. It’s now almost eleven. Roughly ten hours since I found out Ingrid was gone. My family waited about that long to report Jane missing. It was still too late. One of the cops who came to our house even chastised us for taking so long to contact them.

There’s always a moment when worry turns to fear, he’d said. That’s when you should have called.

I’m already there. I crossed that threshold between worry and fear as soon as I found the gun. Which is why I grab my phone, take a breath, and dial 911. I’m connected immediately with a dispatcher.

“I’d like to report a missing person,” I say.

“What’s the person’s name?”

The dispatcher speaks in a dispassionate tone. A calmness that’s both soothing and maddening. A little urgency would make me feel better.

“Ingrid Gallagher.”

“And how long has Ingrid been missing?”

“Ten hours.” I stop, correct myself. “Since last night.”

Emotion at last seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. One I don’t welcome—incredulity.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“Yes. She left in the middle of the night. I didn’t hear about it until ten hours ago.”

“And how old is Ingrid?”

I say nothing. I don’t know.

“Is she a minor?” the dispatcher says, prodding.

“No.”

“A senior citizen?”

“No.” I pause again. “She’s in her early twenties.”

More doubt seeps into the dispatcher’s voice. “You don’t know her exact age?”

“No,” I say, adding a hasty, “I’m sorry.”

“So she’s not a relation?”

“No. We’re . . .”

Yet another pause as I think of the appropriate word. I wouldn’t call Ingrid a friend, exactly. Or even an acquaintance.

“Neighbors,” I say. “We’re neighbors, and she’s not answering her phone or texts.”

“What was her last known location?”

Finally, a question that’s easy to answer. “The Bartholomew.”

“Is that her residence?”

“Yes.”

“Are there signs of a struggle?”

“I’m not sure.” A weak, useless answer. I try to make up for it by adding, “I don’t think so.”

Now it’s the dispatcher’s turn to pause. When he finally speaks, his voice contains more than doubt and incredulity. There’s also confusion. And pity. And just a touch of annoyance to make it clear he thinks I’m wasting his time.

“Ma’am, are you sure she hasn’t just gone away for a few days?”

“I was told she moved out,” I say.

“That would explain why she’s no longer there.”

I wince at the dispatcher’s tone. The pity’s gone. So is the confusion. Only annoyance remains.

“I know it sounds like she just moved out and didn’t tell me,” I say, “but she left me a note telling me to be careful. And she left a gun. Which makes me think she was in trouble somehow.”

“Did she ever mention feeling threatened?”

“She told me she was scared,” I say.