She’s not on the top floor, but we’re pretty high up, and I know this place is more expensive than it should be. You can tell from the ridiculous modern art on the communal hallway walls. It’s in one of those fancy condos with a bellhop or whatever you call them at the front door. All that newfound success has been good to her. “I used to live in a shared apartment in Queens,” she explains to us. “Three roommates. All artists, so obviously no one cleaned and they rarely paid the rent on time. It was hell.” Us being me and Eli, of course. And Pan. Though he’s not very talkative right now. Roxie glances to the satyr statue in front of her door. It definitely doesn’t look like it fits in, but this is New York—if nothing else, her neighbors will just label her as a little eccentric, if they notice anything at all. I pat Pan on the forehead as Roxie opens her door and leads us inside. I can’t tell if the space screams Roxie or if it’s one of those prefurnished condos that make such good showpieces: White walls with multicolored accents—red in the kitchen, sage in the living room, chocolate in the dining room.
