After a quick trip down, the elevator door opened onto another air lock chamber, this an exit from the pressurized environment of the laboratory.
Why, she wondered, had no one spotted her yet? Perhaps this part of the clinic was such a lockdown that nurses and guards weren't necessary.
As she stepped from the air lock, she was in a hallway. She walked down and tried the first unmarked door. It was locked, but then she saw the slot for her card. She slipped it in and the door opened automatically.
The room she entered had a row of beds, each shrouded in a curtain. As she walked down the center aisle, she realized that only one of the beds was occupied.
And, yes, it was Kristen. She was lying there and when Ally slid back the curtain, her eyes clicked open, startled.
"Hi, don't be afraid. I'm a friend." She quietly finished drawing the curtain aside.
Now the once‑breezy Kristen Starr was staring at her with angry eyes, the false bravado of a frightened child. And she looked much younger than she had in the head shot she'd attached to the walls of her town house with steak knives. She said nothing for a moment; then she mouthed, "Who are you?"
"I talked to you on the phone a couple of days ago," Ally said, not sure herself exactly when it was, "when you went down to your place on West Eleventh Street."
"I don't know you," she mouthed again, this time with a slight whisper.
"My name is Ally Hampton." She moved next to her so she could keep her voice down. "I'm an interior designer. I once did an apartment for you in Chelsea."