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Art frowns. “I’m not actually sure.”
I rub my chin. “Strictly speaking, the cat was the first to enter.”
“I have a better question,” Honey says. “Do you have anything inside that can be murdered and/or tortured?”
Art steps into the apartment. “Not yet, but how about we follow, just in case.”
I step inside.
Wow.
The entryway and hallway are clean and modern, with an empty shoe rack in the foyer—a luxury item I do not own—and even a coat hanger on the wall.
Very grown-up.
There are also paintings in the classical style everywhere, but it’s the familiar sound coming from one corner of the room that commands my attention.
“Is that an air purifier?” I ask Art, excited.
He glances at my nose. “I had one installed in every room.”
Aww. I walk over to the device. It’s the same brand as the one I have, but a fancier model. To get them for every room must’ve cost a fortune and a half.
“Aww,” Honey says, echoing my thoughts. “Making sure the place doesn’t smell? He’s a keeper.”
“You know it.” I take out my nose filters.
Damn. This apartment is an olfactory nirvana. I’m almost unable to smell anything other than Art’s yumminess and Honey’s leather jacket.
“We should check on Bunny.” Art leads us down the hallway and into what turns out to be a bedroom.
Honey chuckles. “This is where it will all happen.”
I arch my eyebrows at her. “Mom, is that you?”
“Touché.” Honey looks under the bed. “Bunny’s not here.”
We walk into the kitchen.
“Incredible,” I mutter, taking in gleaming white cabinets that extend all the way to the ceiling, stainless steel appliances that look vaguely futuristic, and black quartz countertops that are roomy enough for me to pitch a tent on them. Not to mention, a table with actual chairs.
“Well, duh,” Honey says. “Your old place doesn’t even have a kitchen.”
Art’s eyebrows furrow. I guess he didn’t notice that detail when he stopped by this morning.
“The cat isn’t here.” I open one of the kitchen cabinets on a lark. Still no cat. “Where else could he be?”
“This way,” Art says and leads us into the living room.
Nice. A huge TV, white rugs, a sleek gray couch—I can see myself here, chilling and watching Netflix with Art… in a purely literal, platonic sense, of course.
Then I spot a giant cage-like structure in one corner of the room and the cat gazing longingly into it.
Honey looks the cage up and down. “Kinky.”
I roll my eyes, and Art coughs.
“That’s called a chinchilla mansion,” he says. “It’s for our pet.”
