Free The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley

from me. I press it and the lights come on, the little mechanical timer clicking down: tick tick tick tick tick . I’ve probably only got a couple of minutes before it goes dark again. I’m definitely in the basement: a wide, low-ceilinged
     space easily double the size of Ben’s apartment; several doors leading off it. A rack in the corner that holds a couple of
     bikes. And leaning against one wall there’s a red moped. I walk over to it, take out the set of keys I found in Ben’s jacket,
     fit the Vespa one into the ignition and turn. The lights hum on. It hits me: so Ben can’t be away on his bike somewhere. I
     must have been leaning against it because it tilts under me. It’s now that I see that the front wheel is flat, the rubber
     completely shredded. An accident? But there’s something about the total decimation that feels intentional.
    I turn back to the basement. Perhaps whoever it was has disappeared behind one of those doors. Are they hiding from me? A
     shiver of unease as I realize I may now be the one being watched.
    I open the first door. A couple of washing machines—one of which is on, all the clothes whizzing around in a colorful jumble.
    In the next room I smell the bins before I see them, that sweetish, rotten scent. Something makes a scuffling sound. I shut
     the door.
    The next is some sort of cleaning cupboard: mops and brooms and buckets and a pile of dirty-looking rags in the corner.
    The next one has a padlock on the door but the door itself is open. I push inside. It’s stuffed full of wine: racks and racks
     of it, floor to ceiling. There might be well over a thousand bottles in here. Some of them look seriously old: labels stained
     and peeling, the glass covered in a layer of dust. I pull one out. I don’t know much about wine. I mean, I’ve worked in plenty
     of bars but they’ve been the sort of place where people ask for “a large glass of red, love” and you get the bottle thrown
     in for an extra couple of quid. But this, it just looks expensive. Whoever’s keeping this stuff down here clearly trusts their neighbors. And probably won’t notice if just one little
     bottle goes missing. Maybe it’ll help me think. I’ll pick something that looks like it’s been down here for ages, something
     that they’ll have forgotten about. I find the dustiest, most cobweb-covered bottles on the bottom racks, search along the
     rows, pull one out a little way. 1996 . An image of a stately home picked out in gold. Château Blondin-Lavigne, the label reads. That’ll do.
    The lights go out. The timer must have run down. I look for a light switch. It’s so dark in here; I’m immediately disorientated.
     I step to the left and brush up against something. Shit, I need to be careful: I’m basically surrounded by teetering walls
     of glass.
    There. Finally I spot the little orange glow of another light switch. I press it, the lights hum back on.
    I turn to find the door. That’s odd, I thought I left it open. It must have swung shut behind me. I turn the handle. But nothing happens when I pull. The door won’t budge. What the hell? That can’t be right. I try it again: nothing. And then again, putting everything into it, throwing all my weight against it.
    Someone’s locked me in. It’s the only explanation.

Concierge
    The Loge
    Afternoon and already the light seems to be fading, the shadows growing deeper. A rap on the door of my cabin. My first thought
     is that it’s him, Benjamin Daniels. The only one who would deign to call on me here. I think of the first time he knocked
     on my door, taking me by surprise:
    â€œ Bonjour Madame . I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m moving in on the third floor. I suppose that makes us neighbors!” I assumed, at first,
     that he was mocking me, but his polite smile said otherwise. Surely he had to know there was no world in which we