Lock Every Door by Riley Sager

Author:Riley Sager [Sager, Riley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Suspense, Psychological, Women
ISBN: 9781524745158
Google: pLNzDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07J4719TX
Barnesnoble: B07J4719TX
Publisher: Dutton
Published: 2019-07-01T23:00:00+00:00

23

The nearest homeless shelter for women is twenty blocks south and two blocks west of the restaurant. After making sure Greta can get back to the Bartholomew on her own, I go there on the slim chance that she’s right and Ingrid is living on the streets.

The shelter is housed in a building that’s seen better days. The exterior is brown brick. The windows are tinted. It used to be a former YMCA, as evidenced by the ghost of those letters hovering to the right of the main entrance. Also hovering there is a group of women smoking in a semicircle. All of them eye me with suspicion as I approach. A silent message telling me what I already know.

Just like at the Bartholomew, I do not belong here.

I’m starting to think I don’t belong anywhere. That it’s my lot in life to occupy a limbo all my own. Still, I approach them and smile, trying not to act frightened, even though I am. Which then makes me feel guilty. I have more in common with these women than anyone at the Bartholomew.

I remove my phone from my pocket and hold it up so they can see the selfie of Ingrid and me in Central Park. “Have any of you seen this girl in the past few days?”

Only one woman in the smoking circle bothers to look. She stares at the photo with hard eyes while biting the inside of her razor-sharp cheeks. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft. I thought she’d sound as weathered as she looks.

“No, ma’am, I haven’t seen her. Not around here.”

I assume she’s the ringleader of this ragtag group, because she nudges the others, compelling them to take a look. They shake their heads, murmur, look away.

“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

Under the watchful gaze of the smokers, I make my way into the building. Just inside the door is an empty waiting area and a registration desk behind a shield of scuffed reinforced glass. On the other side sits a plump woman who studies me with the same disdain as the women outside.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Are you in need of shelter?”

“No,” I say. “I’m looking for someone. A friend.”

“Has she entered herself into the shelter system?” the woman asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Is she under the age of twenty-one? Because that means she’d be at a different facility.”

“She’s over twenty-one,” I say.

“If she has children or is currently pregnant, she’d be at one of our PATH shelters,” the woman adds. “There are also separate facilities for victims of domestic violence. If she’s been on the street a while, you might find her at a drop-in center.”

I lean back, overwhelmed not just by the sheer number of locations and designations but the fact that there’s a need for all of them. Once more, it makes me feel fortunate that I found the Bartholomew. It also makes me fear what will happen once I leave.

“No kids,” I tell the woman.

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