I didn't know which yet.
I picked up my bags.
At the door, I stopped. Turned back. Did the apartment one last look the way you do when you're leaving somewhere you're not going to see again — not nostalgically, just completely. Sealing the memory.
Then I locked the door.
Slid the key under the super's door at the end of the hall.
Walked out.
The evening was ordinary. I got to the penthouse at six, found the door code exactly where Dax had texted it, took the private elevator up, stood in the foyer of the apartment that was now, on paper, where I lived.
The guest room was the second door on the right. I walked to it and pushed it open.
The old guest room had been — tasteful, I assumed. Beige or grey, the neutral non-room of a space that doesn't belong to anyone. What I was looking a
