Free The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley Page B

explanation. “Someone locked me in here,” I say. I feel shivery now that the adrenaline’s wearing off. “Someone did this on purpose.”
    He pushes a hand through his hair, frowns. “I don’t think so. The door was jammed when I opened it. The handle definitely
     seems a bit sticky.”
    I think of how hard I threw myself against it. Could it really just have been stuck? “Well, thanks,” I say weakly.
    â€œNo worries.” He steps back and looks at me. “What are you doing here? Not in the cave , I mean: in the apartment?”
    â€œYou know Ben, on the third floor? I’m meant to be staying with him—”
    He frowns. “Ben didn’t tell me he had anyone coming to stay.”
    â€œWell it was kind of last minute,” I say. “So . . . you know Ben?”
    â€œYeah. He’s an old friend. And you are?”
    â€œI’m Jess,” I say. “Jess Hadley, his sister.”
    â€œI’m Nick.” A shrug. “I—well, I’m the one who suggested he come and live here.”

Nick
    Second floor
    I suggested Jess come up to my place, rather than us chatting in the chilly darkness of the cave . I’m slightly regretting it now: I’ve offered her a seat but she’s pacing the room, looking at my Peloton bike, my bookcases.
     The knees of her jeans are worn, the cuffs of her sweater frayed, her fingernails bitten down to fragments like tiny pieces
     of broken shell. She gives off this jittery, restless energy: nothing like Ben’s languor, his easy manner. Her voice is different
     too; no private school for her, I’m guessing. But then Ben’s accent often changed depending on who he was speaking to. It
     took me a while to realize that.
    â€œHey,” she says, suddenly. “Can I go splash some water on my face? I’m really sweaty.”
    â€œBe my guest.” What else can I say?
    She wanders back in a couple of minutes later. I catch a gust of Annick Goutal Eau de Monsieur; either she wears it too (which
     seems unlikely) or she helped herself when she was in there.
    â€œBetter?” I ask.
    â€œYeah, much, thanks. Hey, I like your rain shower. That’s what you call it, right?”
    I continue to watch her as she looks around the room. There’s a resemblance there. From certain angles it’s almost uncanny. . . . But her coloring’s different from Ben’s, her hair a dark auburn to his brown, her frame small and wiry. That, and the curious wayshe’s prowling around, sizing the place up, makes me think of a little fox.
    â€œThanks for helping me out,” she says. “For a moment I thought I’d never get out.”
    â€œBut what on earth were you doing in the cave ?”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œ Cave ,” I explain, “it means ‘cellar’ in French.”
    â€œOh, right.” She chews the skin at the edge of her thumbnail, shrugs. “Having a look around the place, I suppose.” I saw that
     bottle of wine in her hand. How she slipped it back into the rack when she didn’t think I was looking. I’m not going to mention
     it. The owner of that cellar can afford to lose a bottle or two. “It’s huge down there,” she says.
    â€œIt was used by the Gestapo in the war,” I tell her. “Their main headquarters was on Avenue Foch, near the Bois de Boulogne.
     But toward the end of the Occupation they had . . . overspill. They used the cave to hold prisoners. Members of the Resistance, that kind of thing.”
    She makes a face. “I suppose it makes sense. This place has an atmosphere, you know? My mum was very into that sort of thing:
     energy, auras, vibrations.”
    Was . I remember Ben telling me about his mum. Drunk in a pub one night. Though even drunk I suspect he never spilled more than
     he intended to.
    â€œAnyway,” she says, “I never really believed in that stuff.