"Nice place," Natasha says once they reach the penthouse, shrugging off Natalie as she shrugs off her jacket. The jacket gets hung up on the rack, her shoes neatly placed by the door, her handbag hung up with her jacket.

She doesn't really have anything of particular value in it, anyway. Except for her subway pass.

They can pry her subway pass out of her cold, dead hands.

(Or, warm. Warm dead hands are easier to manage.)