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  Even better, I’ll be getting paid to do it.

  Twelve thousand dollars.

  Happy tears form in my eyes. I quickly swipe them away, lest Leslie think I’m too emotional and change her mind.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Truly. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Leslie beams. “It’s my pleasure, Jules. Welcome to the Bartholomew. I think you’re going to love it here.”

  3

  There’s a catch, right?” Chloe says before taking a sip of Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s. “I mean, there has to be.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. “But if there is, I can’t find it.”

  “No sane person would pay a stranger to live in their luxury apartment.”

  The two of us are in the living room of Chloe’s non-luxury apartment in Jersey City, seated around the coffee table that has become our regular dining spot since I started crashing here. Tonight it’s scattered with cartons of cheap Chinese takeout. Vegetable lo mein and pork fried rice.

  “It’s not like it’s some kind of vacation,” I say. “It’s a legitimate job. I have to take care of the place. Cleaning and keeping an eye on things.”

  Chloe pauses mid-bite, sending noodles slithering off her chopsticks. “Wait—you’re not actually going to do this, are you?”

  “Of course I am. I can move in tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? That’s, like, suspiciously fast.”

  “They want someone there as soon as possible.”

  “Jules, you know I’m not paranoid, but this is ringing all the alarm bells. What if it’s a cult?”

  I roll my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m completely serious. You don’t know these people. Did they even tell you what happened to the woman who lived there?”

  “She died.”

  “Did they say how?” Chloe says. “Or where? Maybe she died in that apartment. Maybe she was murdered.”

  “You’re being weird.”

  “I’m being cautious. There’s a difference.” Chloe takes another gulp of wine, exasperated. “Will you at least let Paul take a look at the paperwork before you sign anything?”

  Chloe’s boyfriend is currently clerking at a big-time law firm while prepping for the bar exam. After the bar, they plan to get married, move to the suburbs, and have two kids and a dog. Chloe likes to joke that they’re upwardly mobile.

  I’m the opposite. Sunk so low that I’m currently eating in the same spot where I’ll later be sleeping. It feels like in the span of two weeks my entire world has shrunk to the size of this couch.

  “I already signed it,” I say. “A three-month contract with the possibility that it could be extended.”

  That last part is a bit of an exaggeration. It was a letter of agreement instead of a contract, and Leslie Evelyn merely hinted that the late owner’s nieces and nephews might need more time to agree on what to do with the place. I say it to give the situation a veneer of professionalism. Chloe works in human resources. Contract extensions impress her.

  “What about tax forms?” she says.

  “What about them?”

  “Did you fill one out?”

  To avoid answering, I poke my chopsticks into the fried rice, seeking out bits of pork. Chloe yanks the carton from my hand and slams it onto the coffee table. Rice sprays across its surface.

  “Jules, you cannot take a job that pays you under the table. That’s some shady shit right there.”

  “It just means more money for me,” I say.

  “It means it’s illegal.”

  I grab the carton and stuff my chopsticks back into it, defiant. “All I care about is twelve thousand dollars. I need that money, Chloe.”

  “I told you, I can lend you money.”

  “That I won’t be able to pay back.”

  “You will,” Chloe insists. “Eventually. Don’t do this because you think you’re being—”

  “A burden?” I say.

  “Those are your words. Not mine.”

  “But I am one.”

  “No, you’re my best friend going through a rough patch, and I’m happy to let you stay as long as you need. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  Chloe has more faith than I do. I’ve spent the past two weeks wondering just how, exactly, my life has gone so spectacularly off the rails. I’m smart. A hard worker. A good person. At least I try to be. Yet all it took to flatten me was the one-two punch of losing my job and Andrew being a garbage human being.

  I’m sure some would say it’s my own damn fault. That it was my responsibility to build an emergency fund. At least three months’ salary, the experts say. I would love to backhand whoever came up with that number. They clearly never had a job with take-home pay that barely covers rent, food, and utilities.

  Because here’s the thing about being poor—most people don’t understand it unless they’ve been there themselves.

  They don’t know what a fragile balancing act it is to stay afloat and that if, God forbid, you momentarily slip underwater, how hard it is to resurface.

  They’ve never written a check with trembling hands, praying there’ll be enough in their account to cover it.

  They’ve never waited for their paycheck to be directly deposited at the stroke of midnight because their wallet is empty and their credit cards are maxed and they desperately need to pay for gas.

  And food.

  And a prescription that’s gone unfilled for an entire week.

  They’ve never had their credit card declined at a grocery store or restaurant or Walmart, all the while enduring the side-eye from an annoyed cashier who silently judges them.

  That’s another thing most people don’t understand—how quick others are to judge. And make assumptions. And presume your financial predicament is the result of stupidity, laziness, years of bad choices.

  They don’t know how expensive it is to bury both of your parents before the age of twenty.

  They don’t know what it’s like to sit weeping before a pile of financial statements showing how much debt they had accrued over the years.

  To be told all their insurance policies have been voided.

  To go back to college, shouldering the cost yourself with the help of financial aid, two jobs, and student loans that won’t be paid off until you’re forty.

  To graduate and enter the job market with a lit degree only to be told you’re either overqualified or underqualified for every position you apply for.

  People don’t want to think about that life, so they don’t. They’re getting by just fine and therefore can’t comprehend why you’re not capable of doing the same. Meanwhile, you’re left all alone to deal with the humiliation. And the fear. And the worry.

  God, the worry.

  It’s always there. A loud hum buzzing through every waking thought. Things have gotten so bleak that I’ve recently started wondering how far I have left to fall before hitting bottom and what I’ll do if I ever reach that point. Will I try to claw my way out, like Chloe thinks I can? Or will I purposefully walk into the howling black void just like my father did?

  Until today, I saw no easy way out of my predicament. But now my heavy, hopeless worry has been temporarily lifted.

  “I need to do this,” I tell Chloe. “Is it unusual? Yes, I will completely admit that it is.”

  “And probably too good to be true,” Chloe adds.

  “Sometimes good things happen to good people, right when they need it the most.”

  Chloe scoots next to me and pulls me into a ferocious embrace, something she’s been doing ever since we ended up being freshmen roommates at Penn State.

  “I think I’d feel better if it was any building but the Bartholomew.”

  “What’s wrong with the Bartholomew?”

  “All th
ose gargoyles, for starters. Didn’t they creep you out?”

  They didn’t. To be honest, I thought the one outside the bedroom window was charming in its own Gothic way. Like a protector standing guard.

  “I’ve heard”—Chloe pauses, seeking an appropriately ominous word—“stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “My grandparents lived on the Upper West Side. My grandfather refused to walk on the same side of the street as the Bartholomew. He said it was cursed.”

  I reach for the lo mein. “I think that says more about your grandfather than it does the Bartholomew.”

  “He believed it,” Chloe says. “He told me the man who built it killed himself. He jumped right off the roof.”

  “I’m not going to turn this down just because of something your grandfather said.”

  “All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to be a little cautious while you’re there. If something feels off, come right back here. The couch is always open.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “I do. And who knows, I might be right back here three months from now. But, cursed or not, staying at the Bartholomew is the best way out of this mess.”

  Not every person gets a do-over in their life. My father certainly didn’t. Neither did my mother.

  But I now have that chance.

  Life is offering me a building-size reset button.

  I intend to press it as hard as I can.

  NOW

  I wake with a start, confused. I don’t know where I am, and that terrifies me.

  Lifting my head, I see a dim room, brightened slightly by a rectangle of light stretching from the open door. Beyond the door is a glimpse of a sterile hallway, the sound of hushed voices, the light squelch of sneakers on tiled floor.

  The pain that had screamed along my left side and in my head is now only a slight murmur. I suspect I have painkillers to thank for that. My brain and body feel gauzy. Like I’ve been stuffed with cotton.

  Panicked, I take stock of all the things that have been done to me while I was unconscious.

  IV tube attached to my hand.

  Bandage wrapped around my left wrist.

  Brace around my neck.

  Bandage at my temple, which I press with curious, probing fingers. The pressure sends up a flare of pain. Enough to make me wince.

  To my surprise, I can sit up, using my elbows for support. Although it causes a slight push of pain at my side, the movement is worth it. Someone passing by the door notices and says, “She’s awake.”

  A light flicks on, revealing white walls, a chair in the corner, a Monet print in a cheap black frame.

  A nurse enters. The same one from earlier. The one with the kind eyes.

  Bernard.

  “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Just a few hours.”

  I look around the room. It’s windowless. Sterile. Blinding in its whiteness.

  “Where am I?”

  “A hospital room, honey.”

  Relief washes over me. The kind of blessed relief that brings tears to my eyes. Bernard grabs a tissue, dabs my cheeks.

  “There’s no need to cry,” he says. “It’s not that bad.”

  He’s right. It’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s wonderful.

  I’m safe.

  I’m nowhere near the Bartholomew.

  FIVE DAYS EARLIER

  4

  In the morning, I give Chloe an extended hug goodbye before taking an Uber into Manhattan. A splurge while carrying my belongings. Not that I have much. I allowed myself exactly one night to move out of the apartment after I found Andrew and his “friend.” There was no crying jag. No screaming loud enough to rattle the walls. I simply said, “Get out. Don’t come back until morning. I’ll be gone by then.”

  Andrew didn’t argue, which told me everything I needed to know. Even though I never would have taken him back, I was still surprised he didn’t at least try to save our relationship. He just left. Where he went, I’ll never know. The other girl’s place, I assume. So they could pick up where they had left off.

  While he was gone, I methodically packed, choosing what could stay and what I couldn’t live without. A lot was left behind, mostly things I’d purchased with Andrew and didn’t have the energy to fight over. As a result, he got to keep the toaster oven and IKEA coffee table and TV.

  At one point during that long, awful night, I considered trashing everything. Just to prove to Andrew that I was also capable of destroying something. But I was too sad and too exhausted to summon such fury. Instead, I settled on shoving every trace of our coupledom into a giant pot on the stove. The photos, the birthday cards, the love notes saved from those first heady months together. I lit a match and dropped it on the pile, watching as the flames rose.

  Before I left, I dumped the ashes on the kitchen floor.

  Another thing Andrew could keep.

  But as I packed for the second time in two weeks, I started to wish I had taken more than just clothes, accessories, books, and keepsakes. I was alarmed by how little I own. My entire life now fits into a suitcase and four fifteen-by-twelve storage boxes.

  When the car pulls up to the Bartholomew, the driver gives a low whistle, impressed. “You work here or something?”

  Technically, that would be a yes. Yet it sounds better to answer with my unofficial job description. “I’m a resident.”

  I slip out of the car and gaze at the facade of my temporary home. The gargoyles over the doorway stare back. With their arched spines and open wings, they look ready to hop from their perch to greet me. That duty instead goes to the doorman standing directly beneath them. Tall and bulky, with ruddy cheeks and a Fuller Brush mustache, he’s by my side the moment the Uber driver pops the trunk.

  “Let me get those for you,” he says, reaching for the boxes. “You must be Miss Larsen. I’m Charlie.”

  I grab my suitcase, wanting to make myself at least a little bit useful. I’ve never lived in a building with a doorman. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

  “Likewise. And welcome to the Bartholomew. I’ll take care of your things. You go on inside. Miss Evelyn is expecting you.”

  I can’t remember the last time I was expected by someone. It makes me feel more than welcome. It makes me feel wanted.

  Sure enough, Leslie is waiting in the lobby. She wears another Chanel suit. Yellow instead of blue.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she says cheerily, punctuating it with air kisses on both of my cheeks. Spotting the suitcase, she says, “Is Charlie taking care of the rest of your things?”

  “He is.”

  “He’s a dream, that Charlie. By far the most efficient of our doormen. But they’re all wonderful in their own right. If you ever need them, they’ll either be outside or right in there.”

  She points to a small room just off the lobby. Through the doorway, I glimpse a chair, a desk, and a row of security monitors glowing blue-gray. One of them shows an angled image of two women paused on the checkerboard tile of the lobby. It takes me a second to realize I’m one of them. Leslie is the other. Looking up, I see the camera positioned right over the front door. My gaze drifts back to the security monitor, which now shows me standing alone as Leslie drifts out of view.

  I follow her to a wall of mailboxes on the other side of the lobby. There are forty-two of them, labeled the same as the apartments, beginning with 2A. Leslie holds up a tiny key on a plain ring marked 12A.

  “Here’s your mail key.”

  She gives it to me the way a grandmother hands out hard candy—dropping it directly into my open palm.

  “You’re expected to check the mail every day. There won’t be much of anything, of course. But the late owner’s family requested that whatever does arrive be forwarded to them. It goes without s
aying that you shouldn’t open any of it, no matter how urgent it appears. For privacy’s sake. As for your own mail, we recommend getting a post-office box. Receiving personal mail at this address is strictly prohibited.”

  I give a quick nod. “Understood.”

  “Now, let’s get you up to the apartment. On the way there, we can go over the rest of the rules.”

  She crosses the lobby again, this time heading to the elevator. Trailing behind her with my suitcase, I say, “Rules?”

  “Nothing major. Just a few guidelines you’ll need to follow.”

  “What kind of guidelines?”

  We stand by the elevator, which is currently in use. Through the gilded bars, I see cables in motion, slithering upward. The whir of machinery rises from somewhere below. A few floors above us, the elevator car hums as it descends.

  “No visitors,” Leslie says. “That’s the biggest one. And when I say no visitors, I mean absolutely no one. No bringing friends for a tour. No letting family members stay over to save them a hotel booking. And definitely no strangers you might meet in a bar or on Tinder. I can’t stress this enough.”

  My first thought is Chloe, to whom I had promised a tour tonight. She’s not going to like this. She’ll tell me it’s a sign—another alarm bell ringing loud and clear. Not that I need Chloe’s help to hear this one.

  “Isn’t that kind of—” I stop myself, searching for a word that won’t offend Leslie. “Strict?”

  “Perhaps,” Leslie says. “But also necessary. Some very prominent people live here. They don’t want strangers walking through their building.”

  “Aren’t I technically a stranger?” I say.

  Leslie corrects me. “You’re an employee. And, for the next three months, a tenant.”

  The elevator finally arrives, bringing with it a man in his early twenties. He’s short but muscular, with a broad chest and big arms. His hair—black, obviously dyed—flops over his right eye. Small ebony discs rest in both earlobes.

  “Well, isn’t this marvelous,” Leslie says. “Jules, I’d like to introduce you to Dylan. He’s another apartment sitter.”