Chapter 2 2

The taxi jerked to a stop in front of the building on Fifth Avenue. The tires sent a wave of dirty rainwater splashing against the curb. Claire tossed a crumpled twenty through the partition and pushed the door open. The rain had softened into a fine, cold mist. She walked quickly toward the glowing awning of the building, her canvas shoes squishing with every step.

The night doorman, a guy named Samuel who had always been polite to her in that distant, professional way, pulled the heavy brass door open. He glanced at her wet clothes and the old backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes softened for a moment.

"Rough night, Ms. Olsen?" he asked gently.

"It's clean now," Claire said, giving him a small, tired smile.

She walked across the vast, marble lobby, her footsteps echoing in the quiet space. She pulled her key card from her pocket and swiped it at the private elevator bank. The doors slid open immediately. She stepped inside and pressed the button marked "PH." As the elevator hummed upward, she leaned her head back against the mirrored wall and closed her eyes. She didn't feel sad. She just felt empty, like a house after all the furniture has been moved out.

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. It was dark. The massive, open-plan living room was lit only by the ambient glow of the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The apartment was freezing. It was a sterile, architectural masterpiece of glass, steel, and cold white marble. It looked like a showroom. It had never looked like a home.

Claire didn't bother turning on the main lights. She walked straight through the living room, past the art on the walls that Axel had picked out to impress people, and into the master bedroom. She went directly to the walk-in closet. It was the size of her entire childhood apartment. The lights flickered on automatically, revealing rows of clothes organized by color and season.

She ignored the section that belonged to Axel. She ignored the section that Axel's personal shopper had filled for her. She crouched down in the far back corner, behind a stack of hatboxes, and pulled out a battered canvas duffel bag. The zipper was broken; she had to pinch it hard to get it to close.

Standing up, she looked at the rack of Chanel suits, Dior gowns, and Hermes bags. She reached out and pushed the hangers aside, digging past the silk and cashmere until she found the back wall. There, shoved behind a stack of designer shoe boxes, were her real clothes. A few plain cotton t-shirts. Two pairs of Levi's jeans that she had bought on sale at a outlet mall. An old, gray hoodie that she had worn to death. She pulled them out, one by one, and shoved them into the duffel bag.

Next, she moved to her vanity. She bypassed the rows of expensive cosmetics Axel's stylist insisted she use. She pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a plain, black, waterproof case. She popped the latches. Nestled inside the foam padding was a Leica M6 camera, its black paint worn smooth from years of handling. Beside it were two lenses and a few rolls of Ilford black-and-white film.

This was her. This was the only thing in this multimillion-dollar apartment that actually belonged to her. She carefully placed the camera and lenses into her backpack, zipping it tight. She slung the backpack over her shoulders. It felt heavy and grounding against her spine.

She turned to leave the closet, but her eye caught the nightstand next to Axel's side of the bed. The top drawer was slightly open. Claire walked over and pulled it open all the way. Inside, sitting on top of a pile of cufflinks and spare change, was a small, red Cartier box.

She picked it up. The velvet was soft under her thumb. It was the anniversary ring. She had bought it for him for their first year anniversary. She had worked three freelance photography jobs-shooting weddings and bar mitzvahs on the weekends while Axel thought she was at the spa-to save up enough money to buy it. It was a simple platinum band. When she had given it to him, he had laughed, called it "cute," and tossed it in the drawer. He never wore it. He had forgotten it was there.

Claire stared at the little red box. She didn't feel the sting of humiliation anymore. She just felt foolish. She had tried to buy love from a man who only understood transactions. She turned the box over in her hands. She didn't open it. She didn't need to see the ring inside.

She turned and walked out of the bedroom, through the cold living room, and into the kitchen. The kitchen was massive, dominated by a huge marble island and stainless steel appliances that looked like they belonged in a restaurant. Claire walked over to the sink. On the side of the counter, built into the wall, was the garbage disposal unit.

She lifted the rubber flap covering the drain. She held the red Cartier box over the dark hole. She didn't hesitate. She dropped it. The box fell into the grinding mechanism with a dull thunk.

Claire reached over and flipped the wall switch.

The sound was violent. A loud, grinding roar filled the silent apartment. It was a mechanical scream. The heavy steel gears chewed through the velvet box, crushing the cardboard and grinding the platinum ring into twisted scrap. The vibration traveled up through the floorboards. It was loud enough to wake the dead. She let it run for ten seconds, listening to the destruction, watching the metal shreds wash down the drain. Then she flipped the switch off. The silence that followed was absolute.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the penthouse key card. She walked over to the marble island and placed the card down exactly in the center. She placed it right next to Axel's favorite water glass. She stepped back. The card sat there, a small piece of plastic severing the final tie.

She pulled the straps of her backpack tighter. She picked up the duffel bag. She did not look back at the apartment. She didn't look at the bed, the couch, or the view. She didn't head for the private elevator that required the key card she had just discarded. Instead, she pushed through the heavy fire door and took the service elevator down, the bare metal walls a stark contrast to the luxury she was leaving behind.

When the elevator opened, Samuel was still at the front desk. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her bags. He started to step out from behind the desk. "Ms. Olsen, do you need me to call you a car?"

"No, Samuel," Claire said, her voice calm. "I'm taking the subway."

She pushed through the brass doors and walked out into the misty night. She walked past the line of black town cars idling at the curb, past the glowing storefronts, and straight down the stairs into the subway entrance. The smell of hot garbage and stale air hit her. A train rumbled in the distance. She swiped her MetroCard, walked through the turnstile, and disappeared into the city.