As I step out, peer side to side, a security guard in a black suit, walkie-talkie in hand, strides around a corner, sees me, shouts. “Stop!”
I duck back in, press thedoor closeicon, jab the first number my finger finds. The uppermost one, fifty-eight. I hear a fist pound on the door outside, but the elevator is in motion. Up, up, up.
I abruptly punch the button for the sixth floor; the elevator stops, the door slides open, and I step out. Peer side to side, see no one. Lean into the elevator, touch fifty-eight again and let the elevator resume its ascent.
I look around: flat white walls, no decorations, bare concrete floor, industrial, raw, unfinished-looking. Exposed beams above, painted black, exposed pipes painted the same. The hallway extends some twenty feet without door or marking of any kind, then turns right. I follow it, and now there are doors on either side of the hallway, staggered so no door is directly across from the another. Door after door. Plain entry doors, no peephole, the door painted the same flat white with large black numerals in industrial stencils. I count:1, 2, 3, 4, 5...even numbers on the right, odds on the left. I count twelve doors.
I hear the elevatordingand the doors open. “Yeah, I’m in pursuit on the sixth floor. Copy that. One second.” The same nasally voice from the stairwell.
My heart thunders, my throat closes. I grab the nearest doorknob, twist, push. Oddly, it opens; I was expecting it to be locked.
I have a sense of disorientation, déjà vu. This could be my condo, down to the flooring and the dimensions and the paint. The only difference is the artwork on the walls, and there is no Louis XIV chair here, but the couch is the same, built-in bookshelves are the same, a kitchen connected to the living room via open floor plan, a short hallway leading to the single bedroom with the en suite bathroom, a smaller office opposite the bedroom. Instead of a library, I see exercise equipment: a huge purple exercise ball, free weights, weight machines.
Out of habit, I close the front door behind me. It clicks loudly as it closes. Footsteps, bare feet on hardwood.
“Caleb?” A soft female voice, thin, high, a twang to it.
I have no hope of hiding or ducking back out; I can only hope this girl will be sympathetic to my plight.
Short, petite, with reddish-blond hair, freckles, pale brown eyes. Very beautiful. Heart-shaped face, delicate chin. Expressive, expectant eyes.
“You ain’t—aren’t, I mean—you aren’t Caleb.”
“No, I am most certainly not.”
“Who are you?”
I hesitate, infinitesimally. “I am Madame X.”
“That’s your name?”
“Yes. And yours?” I endeavor to seem confident.
Shrug, as if it doesn’t matter. “I’m Six-nine-seven-one-three. For now. But I’m gonna be Rachel.”
My heart twists. “Six-nine . . . what?”
A gesture, pointing at the door opposite. “Across the way, she’s Six-nine-seven-one-four.” A finger pointing next door. “She’s Five. Down the way are Seven and Nine, and across from us are Two, Six, and Eight. That’s all of us, for now.”
“I’m confused.” I have to lean back against the door. Something niggles at me. An idea, a horrible idea.
The girl is dressed in a shift; that’s the only word for it. It’s not a dress, not a nightgown. It’s plain white thin cotton, hangs at midshin. She is very clearly nude beneath it. Barefoot. Hair in a simple low ponytail, no makeup, no paint on fingers or toes.
“It’s my apprentice number. Who are you, and why are you here?”
“I work for Caleb.” It’s the truth and hopefully sounds authoritative.
“But why are you here?” The girl steps toward me, suspicion in her eyes. “Ain’t nobody ever—” She winces, starts over. “I mean... No one ever visits except Caleb. No one, not ever. So who are you, and what do you want?”
I examine the ceiling, the corners where the molding joins. “Are you watched?”
“Watched?” Six-nine-seven-one-three follows my gaze. “You mean cameras?” A snort of derision. “You got to be kidding me. This whole floor is off-monitor. This one, nine, fifty-eight, and obviously Caleb’s penthouse up top. Thirteen don’t exist, or there’s no way to get to it. Rumor is Caleb has a secret lair on the thirteenth floor, like a red room or something. But this floor, nine, and fifty-eight, there’s no security cameras or audio. Too much risk, I guess. Can’t have people knowing what’s going on, right?”
I shake my head. “What happens on these three floors... Rachel?”
The girl doesn’t answer right away. “I ain’t—I’mnotRachel yet. Haven’t earned my name yet. I’m just Three... for now.”Side-eyed glance of speculation; a decision reached. “And if you don’t know, I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
I push past the girl, walk to the window, my favorite window, the same one, same place. Slightly lower view, but nearly as comforting. Watch the cars pass, pedestrians. Familiar, soothing. I can almost breathe.
