A woman in a bright blue wool coat exited the apartment building’s revolving doors. Two more people went in, carrying gym bags. Spencer pushed through the door after them, walking into a marble atrium. At the far end of the room was a bank of three elevators. There was an old-school dial above each of them, telling which floor the cars were on. The room smelled like fresh flowers, and there was classical music playing quietly over a hidden speaker.
The concierge at the front desk wore a pristine gray suit and rimless eyeglasses. He gave Spencer a weary smile as she approached. “Um, hi,” Spencer said, hoping her voice didn’t sound too young and naïve. “I’m looking for a woman who recently moved in here. Her name is Olivia. She’s in Paris right now, but I’m wondering if I could get into her apartment for a moment.”
“Sorry,” the concierge said dryly, returning to his paperwork. “I can’t let you up unless I have the tenant’s permission.”
Spencer frowned. “But…she’s my mom. Her name is Olivia Caldwell.”
The concierge shook his head. “No one named Olivia Caldwell lives here.”
Spencer tried to ignore the sudden, gnawing pain in her stomach. “Maybe she doesn’t go by her maiden name. She might go by Olivia Frick. Her husband’s name is Morgan Frick.”
The concierge gave her a withering look. “No one named Olivia anything lives here. I know every resident in this building.”
Spencer stepped back, glancing at a line of gilded mailboxes on the far wall. There had to be two hundred units in this place. How could this guy honestly know every single person? “She just moved in,” she pressed. “Can you check?”
The concierge sighed, then reached for a spiral-bound black book. “This is a list of the tenants in the building,” he explained. “What did you say her last name was?”
“Caldwell. Or Frick.”
The concierge flipped to the C’s, then to the F’s. “Nope. There’s no one under either of those names. Look for yourself.”
He pushed the book across the desk. Spencer leaned over, looking. There was a Caldecott and a Caleb, but no Caldwell. There was a Frank and a Friel, but no Frick. Her whole body went hot, then cold. “This can’t be right.”
The concierge sniffed and returned the book to its shelf. A black phone on the front desk let out a bleat. “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver and spoke in a low, polite voice.
Spencer spun around, pressing her palm to her forehead. Two women toting Barneys shopping bags burst through the revolving doors, laughing loudly. A man walking a shaggy Bernese mountain dog came in and joined them at the elevator bank. Spencer was dying to slip in with them, ride the elevator up to the top floor and…and what? Break into Olivia’s penthouse to prove she really lived here?
Andrew’s voice swirled in her head. Don’t you think you’re moving a little fast? I don’t want you to get hurt.
No. The tenant book hadn’t been recently updated—Olivia and Morgan had just moved in. And Olivia’s phone wasn’t ringing because she was out of the country. And Michael Hutchins’s number was out of order because he’d unexpectedly changed it. Spencer’s apartment did exist. She was going to move into an apartment on Perry Street, the best block in the Village, next week, to live happily ever after within a few blocks from her honest-to-God biological mom. This wasn’t too good to be true.
Was it?
Spencer’s skin felt braised. Either give Long-Lost Mommy a rest and keep searching for what really happened…or pay my price, A had said. Beyond halfheartedly telling the others that A had sent her a second note, Spencer hadn’t searched for Ali’s true killer at all. What if this was A’s price? A knew she was looking for her birth mother. Perhaps A had a team of people under his or her control. A woman called Olivia. A man who posed as a Realtor, inventing an apartment at 223 Perry Street without looking at a map for accuracy. A had known Spencer wanted a family who loved her badly enough to risk everything, even her college education.
She turned away from the front desk in the lobby, fumbling for her Sidekick. In a few clicks, she was logging into the account she’d found on her dad’s computer. It felt as if she couldn’t get a deep breath. Please, she whispered under her breath. This can’t be happening.
A statement popped onto the screen. There was Spencer’s name, address, and account number. The balance was in red font at the bottom. When she saw it, Spencer’s stomach heaved. Her vision narrowed until all she saw was the figure before her. It wasn’t many zeros…just one.
The account had been cleared out, down to the very last penny.
25
AND THE WINNER IS…
Saturday night, Hanna sat at her dressing table, sweeping the last touches of bronzer across her cheeks. The black, lace-lined Rachel Roy sheath dress she’d bought for the Radley party fit her perfectly, snug but not too snug around her waist and hips. She’d been way too busy competing for Mike this week to succumb to her usual Cheez-It binges. If only the Mike Montgomery diet came in a bottle.
There was a knock on her door, and Hanna jumped. Her dad stood in the doorway to her bedroom, dressed in a black V-neck sweater and jeans. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
Hanna swallowed hard, gazing at her made-up reflection in the mirror. She doubted her dad would buy that she was spending a quiet night in. “There’s an opening for this big hotel outside town,” she admitted.
“Is that why Kate’s door is shut too? You’re both going together?”