By the time we reached the fifth floor, we were both out of breath, and I was resolving to start doing more cardio, because this was embarrassing.

“Should we start running or something?” Stevie asked, turning to me, brushing her hair back, and I smiled.

“I was just thinking that,” I said. “Ooh! We could use the hundred dollars to buy some spin classes.”

“We’ve got big plans for this hundred,” Stevie said, raising an eyebrow at me as she pulled out the keys again. She started to turn the key in the lock when I thought of something.

“Wait! Should we knock first, do you think?”

“Why? Mallory gave us the keys.”

“What if that Brad guy is in there? I don’t want to startle him or whatever.”

“You’d think he could have come and gotten the wallet.”

“Seriously.” She nodded at me and I knocked on the door. We both listened, but I couldn’t hear the sound of anyone coming, and after a minute, I shrugged. “Maybe he’s out.”

Stevie turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, and I followed behind her. It was dark, and I hit the light that was right by the door and looked around. We had walked into the living area—the small kitchen was in front of us, and to the side, a couch and two chairs were positioned in front of the television. Down a hallway, I could see three doors, one cracked open, presumably the bedrooms and bathroom. It was small, and I knew New York apartments were, in theory, but it was something else seeing one up close. Compared to this, Teri’s guesthouse was a mansion.

“It’s so small,” I whispered to Stevie.

“I know,” she whispered back. “My dad’s is a little bigger, but not that much.”

“Um, hi,” I called into the empty, quiet space, just in case there was someone there who wasn’t expecting two teenagers from Connecticut to barge in and start judging their apartment. “We’re… friends of Mallory’s? We’re here to drop something off?” We both waited in silence for another minute, but still, nobody emerged and Brad seemed to be MIA, so I walked farther into the apartment, Stevie following me, the door slamming shut behind us.

“Okay,” I said, as Stevie put the red wallet on the kitchen counter and set the keys next to it. “Do you think we need to leave a note or something?”

“Probably not,” Stevie said. “I mean, it’s not like Mallory’s roommate won’t be looking for it.” She set her clutch down on the counter and took a step farther into the kitchen, peering around.

“What?”

“I was just wondering. You know that stereotype about people who live in New York turning their ovens into closets?”

“They what?”