“Let’s go back there, then,” I say to Cal, with a subtle glance toward the Greenwoods. No need for them to overhear any more than they already have.

“I don’t know how a mugger got in the building with Ronald at the door!” Mrs. Greenwood frets.

I told the Greenwoods that someone accosted me at the pool, but I was vague on details. Mrs. Greenwood assumed it was a mugging when I told her I’d have to use her phone to call my brother.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say to the couple.

“You go ahead and keep that,” Mrs. Greenwood says, nodding at the striped towel. I think she’d give me almost anything to get us out of her apartment.

We head back down the hallway to the elevators, my bare feet padding soundlessly on the carpet, while Cal and Dante walk on either side of me like bookends.

“Do you know who the diver was?” Dante says, in his deep, gravelly voice. “Did you see his face?”

“No.” I shake my head. “He had dark eyes. That’s all I saw. Most of his face was covered by the scuba mask. He was strong . . . ”

I shiver involuntarily, remembering how his arms locked around me and dragged me down under the water.

“Are there cameras up on the roof?” Cal asks me.

“I have no idea,” I say.

We take the elevator down from the thirty-second floor to the twenty-eighth. Even though Cal already went through my apartment using his spare key, Dante checks it again before we enter.

“I’m gonna shower real quick,” I say to them. “Help yourself to a drink, if you want.”

I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it and wash the chlorine smell out of my hair. As I turn my face into the spray, I feel another swoop of panic. I remember the awful heaving of my lungs, desperate for air. I shut the water off, drying off with my own properly-sized towel, and changing into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

When I come back out to the living room, Cal and Dante are prowling around, checking the windows and balcony doors for any sign that someone might have broken in here earlier in the day.

“Does anything look out of place?” Cal asks me. “Is anything missing?”

“Not that I can see.”

I would notice. My apartment is minimalist in the extreme, clean and well-organized. My books are arranged alphabetically by author name. There isn’t a single dirty dish in the sink. I don’t have plants or pets—I don’t want anything living depending on me.

“Let’s have a chat with Ronald, then,” Dante growls.

Ronald is the main doorman. He and two others rotate shifts so there’s someone in the lobby 24/7, making sure nobody who isn’t a resident or guest accesses the building.

Ronald is middle-aged, bald, paunchy, and friendly. He has a hint of a British accent that may be real, or may be something he uses to endear himself to the tenants, who like the idea of a posh internationally-imported doorman.