“Do you think it’s because we said ‘walk’?” Stevie asked. The second she said this, Brad leaped up and started running down the stairs again, the leash thumping down the steps behind him. “Sorry!” she yelled as we both chased after him.

“C’mere, pup,” I said, and Brad stopped on the third-floor landing and looked at me, his whole back half waggling from side to side, the long blue leash clenched in his teeth. “Here, bud,” I said, making my voice sound as excited as possible as I edged toward him, just trying not to make any sudden movements that would get him to take off again. The last thing I wanted was for the front door to somehow be open and for this tiny dog to go running out into the streets of Manhattan. The thought of it was actually making me feel sick. “That’s right,” I said, moving closer to the dog, and closer still. “We’ll just be… very gentle… and…” I reached out and grabbed his collar, then let out a long breath, now that I had the dog again.

“You’ve got him?” Stevie said from a few stairs above me, sounding as panicked as I’d felt.

“Yes,” I said. I still held him tightly as I reached out and took the leash from him and snapped it onto the ring of his collar. I felt better, just having this dog on a leash, feeling like he wasn’t out of my control. “Thank god.”

We turned around and started to walk up the stairs, Stevie ahead of me, Brad trotting along, not seeming to care that he was going back to his apartment, now that he was on his leash. Maybe he didn’t mind where he walked—just that he was walking. “Seriously,” I said, shaking my head as we reached the fifth floor. “That was almost a total disaster.”

“Kat,” Stevie said, her voice strangled.

“What?” I asked. I came to stand next to her on the landing, then looked where she was staring, and understood. The door to the apartment must have slammed behind us when we ran out—because the door was closed.

Which meant the door was locked.

Which meant that we were screwed.

Meanwhile, back in Connecticut…

TERI’S NIGHT WAS NOT OFF to a great start.

She’d been all set to Netflix and chill with Ryan Camper—she had thought the phrase was self-explanatory, and didn’t know why Kat had been confused about what that meant. She had the movies queued, the snacks out, her phone charged. But just as she was about to call Ryan in Maine, Kat’s phone beeped with a text. And then another. And then another still.

They were all from a woman named Bobbie Stone. She was texting Kat because she needed a babysitter. Right away.