Page 2

“And how much does each storage unit cost per month?” I ask, fearing I already know the answer.

Galentine laughs again. “Oh, it’s included in the rent. Did I mention I haven’t raised the rent in the twenty-five years I’ve owned The Serendipity?”

“You did.”

Twice.

“Commendable,” I force myself to say.

Irrational, I think.

Galentine beams. “Thank you. The last area is the basement unit, and that’s where John stays.”

There’s a basement unit?

“And John is…?”

“John is our full-time, live-in building manager,” Galentine says.

“There’s a building manager?” My best guess is that this is a fancy name for someone who sweeps the hallways and fixes plumbing issues.

“Yes. It’s a salaried position—has been for the last seventeen years. He keeps this place running.”

Salaried position.

I pull the tin of Barkley’s Ginger Mints out of my pocket, shake three onto my palm, and pop them into my mouth. Numbers flash through my mind as the mints dissolve on my tongue, making my eyes water. I hope they settle my stomach. They certainly aren’t helping settle my thoughts.

“I’d introduce you, but it’s Wednesday afternoon. He’s at Bingo.”

“Bingo,” I repeat, as though a standing weekly Bingo appointment before five o’clock is something relatable. I guess it’s the kind of thing you do when you have the safety of a salaried position and a place to live.

She doesn’t show me the inside of the unit—For the sake of his privacy,Galentine says—but tells me it’s a roomy one bedroom with a full kitchen.

“And some natural light, which you don’t usually get in a basement,” she says. “There’s a private exit leading to the pocket park next to our building.” At my blank look, she adds, “It’s not a full park, just a little space between buildings with a few benches and plants. You’ll love it.”

Will I?Other than running five miles a day, usually on sidewalks and not in parks, I don’t spend much time outside.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” I say.

I follow Galentine back into the elevator. It shudders and heaves a tired groan but manages to rise up to the fourth floor. The doors open to reveal a woman waiting for the elevator, with a large cat in her arms and a small dog on a leash. Galentine greets her with a hug as we step off, and I walk briskly away from the woman and her small zoo, sensing an imminent introduction I’d prefer to do without.

My people quota for the day has already been met … and exceeded.

When Galentine catches up to me, I ask, “The building allows pets?”

“Oh, yes. We’re one of the few places in the downtown area that do.”

For now, I think, adding pet policy to the list in my mind of changes I’ll be putting into place—starting tomorrow byeliminating John’s salaried position, which apparently pays for Wednesday afternoon Bingo.

My lawyer is already looking at the leasing agreements to make sure the rent isn’t fixed through contract. Because I will be ending Galentine’s twenty-five years with no increase as soon as I’m legally able.

Then I’ll eliminate wasted spaces, like the first-floor parlor, library, and commercial kitchen. These rooms might have had some functionality when this was a dormitory, but there’s absolutely no need now. I’ll start charging monthly fees for the storage units and figure out how to eliminate free laundry. If the units don’t have washer and dryer hookups, the basement option might be a necessary evil. But there has to be a way for it to generate revenue.

A bigger undertaking will be filling in the pool and enclosing the courtyard to make more rentable units. Though construction in the courtyard may prove tricky. Perhaps there’s a way to create a rental option for the outside area as well as the rooftop garden. Both would have event planners salivating.

Eventually, once I drive most of the tenants out through rent increases and policy changes, I’ll renovate. The Serendipity will transition to luxury lofts. In a historic building like this, they’ll bring in far more money.

We finally reach what is now my apartment door. Temporarily. At least until I feel safe returning to New York without the constant harassment of headlines and reporters following me around, shouting questions about my father’s crimes and my alleged involvement. The lack of my name on any indictment should have been enough to silence their questions about me, but it’s too juicy of a story.