Andrew didn’t argue, which told me everything I needed to know. Even though I never would have taken him back, I was still surprised he didn’t at least try to save our relationship. He just left. Where he went, I’ll never know. The other girl’s place, I assume. So they could pick up where they had left off.

While he was gone, I methodically packed, choosing what could stay and what I couldn’t live without. A lot was left behind, mostly things I’d purchased with Andrew and didn’t have the energy to fight over. As a result, he got to keep the toaster oven and IKEA coffee table and TV.

At one point during that long, awful night, I considered trashing everything. Just to prove to Andrew that I was also capable of destroying something. But I was too sad and too exhausted to summon such fury. Instead, I settled on shoving every trace of our coupledom into a giant pot on the stove. The photos, the birthday cards, the love notes saved from those first heady months together. I lit a match and dropped it on the pile, watching as the flames rose.

Before I left, I dumped the ashes on the kitchen floor.

Another thing Andrew could keep.

But as I packed for the second time in two weeks, I started to wish I had taken more than just clothes, accessories, books, and keepsakes. I was alarmed by how little I own. My entire life now fits into a suitcase and four fifteen-by-twelve storage boxes.

When the car pulls up to the Bartholomew, the driver gives a low whistle, impressed. “You work here or something?”

Technically, that would be a yes. Yet it sounds better to answer with my unofficial job description. “I’m a resident.”

I slip out of the car and gaze at the facade of my temporary home. The gargoyles over the doorway stare back. With their arched spines and open wings, they look ready to hop from their perch to greet me. That duty instead goes to the doorman standing directly beneath them. Tall and bulky, with ruddy cheeks and a Fuller Brush mustache, he’s by my side the moment the Uber driver pops the trunk.

“Let me get those for you,” he says, reaching for the boxes. “You must be Miss Larsen. I’m Charlie.”

I grab my suitcase, wanting to make myself at least a little bit useful. I’ve never lived in a building with a doorman. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

“Likewise. And welcome to the Bartholomew. I’ll take care of your things. You go on inside. Miss Evelyn is expecting you.”

I can’t remember the last time I was expected by someone. It makes me feel more than welcome. It makes me feel wanted.

Sure enough, Leslie is waiting in the lobby. She wears another Chanel suit. Yellow instead of blue.

“Welcome, welcome,” she says cheerily, punctuating it with air kisses on both of my cheeks. Spotting the suitcase, she says, “Is Charlie taking care of the rest of your things?”

“He is.”

“He’s a dream, that Charlie. By far the most efficient of our doormen. But they’re all wonderful in their own right. If you ever need them, they’ll either be outside or right in there.”

She points to a small room just off the lobby. Through the doorway, I glimpse a chair, a desk, and a row of security monitors glowing blue-gray. One of them shows an angled image of two women paused on the checkerboard tile of the lobby. It takes me a second to realize I’m one of them. Leslie is the other. Looking up, I see the camera positioned right over the front door. My gaze drifts back to the security monitor, which now shows me standing alone as Leslie drifts out of view.

I follow her to a wall of mailboxes on the other side of the lobby. There are forty-two of them, labeled the same as the apartments, beginning with 2A. Leslie holds up a tiny key on a plain ring marked 12A.

“Here’s your mail key.”

She gives it to me the way a grandmother hands out hard candy—dropping it directly into my open palm.

“You’re expected to check the mail every day. There won’t be much of anything, of course. But the late owner’s family requested that whatever does arrive be forwarded to them. It goes without saying that you shouldn’t open any of it, no matter how urgent it appears. For privacy’s sake. As for your own mail, we recommend getting a post-office box. Receiving personal mail at this address is strictly prohibited.”

I give a quick nod. “Understood.”

“Now, let’s get you up to the apartment. On the way there, we can go over the rest of the rules.”

She crosses the lobby again, this time heading to the elevator. Trailing behind her with my suitcase, I say, “Rules?”

“Nothing major. Just a few guidelines you’ll need to follow.”

“What kind of guidelines?”

We stand by the elevator, which is currently in use. Through the gilded bars, I see cables in motion, slithering upward. The whir of machinery rises from somewhere below. A few floors above us, the elevator car hums as it descends.

“No visitors,” Leslie says. “That’s the biggest one. And when I say no visitors, I mean absolutely no one. No bringing friends for a tour. No letting family members stay over to save them a hotel booking. And definitely no strangers you might meet in a bar or on Tinder. I can’t stress this enough.”

My first thought is Chloe, to whom I had promised a tour tonight. She’s not going to like this. She’ll tell me it’s a sign—another alarm bell ringing loud and clear. Not that I need Chloe’s help to hear this one.