“Yeah, I can,” I snap, cutting his objection off. Under different circumstances, I’d find his accent charming. So you can just slide the key through the mail slot in my door when you’re finished, if you want? I’ll be home later tonight to grab it.” He’d rather be unplugging a shit-filled toilet than be here right now. “She seemed really nice,” he offers, his throat turning scratchy, shifting on his feet. His eyes flicker to the thin wall that divides the bedroom from the rest of the apartment-its only purpose is to allow the building’s owner to charge rent for a “one-bedroom” instead of a studio. That’s why, after not showing up for two days and not answering her phone or her door, her coworker finally called the cops. “You were the one who let the police in?” Celine never missed work, never arrived late. I’ve simply stood here since then, feeling the brick-exposed walls-lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and filled with the impressive collection of treasures that Celine had amassed over her twenty-eight years-closing in on me.īut now I feel the need to speak. An orchestra of clocks that softly tick away claim that that was nearly half an hour ago. I’ve barely said two words since I met him in front of Celine’s apartment, armed with a stack of cardboard flats and trash bags.
I think he gave me his name but I wasn’t listening. Given the apartment is 475 square feet, it doesn’t take him long to reach it. I finally turn and acknowledge the building super-a chestnut-haired English guy around thirty by my guess, with a layer of scruff over his jawline and faded blue jeans-edging toward the door. It costs more per month than the average American hands the bank in mortgage payments. Take this Lower East Side apartment, for example, on the third floor of a drafty building built in the 1800s, with a ladder of shaky fire escapes facing the side alley and a kitschy gelato café downstairs. I’ve never been a fan of New York City and all its overpriced boroughs. “Yeah,” I respond without actually turning around, my gaze taking in the cramped bedroom before me.
It would be inviting, only her body was found in this very bed just thirteen days ago. The afternoon sun beams through the narrow window, casting a warm glow over Celine’s floral comforter.
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