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strangers in. That’s what people did on Barter Street, whether it was a friend of a friend at a house party or to exchange a teapot from Freecycle. We opened doors. We invited people in.
    And I got up to double-check that mine was double bolted.

Chapter 7
WATCHING THE DETECTIVES
    I was still mentally walking around KitKat’s crime scene when my work ringtone, Loverboy’s “Working for the Weekend,” interrupted me from where I had left my phone on the table.
    â€œYou want to go to the Hartford Firm on the third shift?” Susan, the MetroReaders dispatcher, asked when I answered. “They want you to come in at ten tonight.”
    I didn’t normally like third shift, but I wasn’t exactly ready to go to sleep. Maybe working among the investigative reports and the legal jargon would spur me on, help me with this case. Of all the places MetroReaders sent me to proofread, Hartford was my favorite. The law offices were stuffy and the financial sector attracted the late-hour crazies, but Hartford kept a small enough roster that I knew someone on call no matter what shift I was working. “Sure,” I said. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
    I RAN INTO Birdie, one of the other Hartford regulars at MetroReaders, on her way out of the temp lounge. “I’m making a coffee run, you want anything?” she asked. I started to shake my head, but she quickly added, “Hartford’s footing the bill—”
    â€œI’ll take a cherry Danish and a vanilla latte.”
    She grinned. “I knew you’d listen to reason,” she said. “Andhey, make sure to grab one of my postcards—I got a show coming up with a guy that was in Kill Bill, says Tarantino’s going to be there opening night.”
    Temp work was a better look into New York’s art, music, and theater culture than any review in the Village Voice . All the temps at MetroReaders were actors, musicians, filmmakers, and other wonderful weirdos. Unlike the trust-fund dopes I used to live with, they were genuine artists who needed the freedom and space only temp work could provide. There would be months where someone wouldn’t show up for work, only to return with stories of six months spent driving to dirty nightclubs and summer festivals in a van with no AC, a film shoot with an A-lister who’d complimented them on the way they delivered their three lines, or backstage whispers of the Broadway diva they’d danced chorus for. It was the center of enjoyable narcissism, and no work night was complete without someone slipping you a flyer for their upcoming show or the link to their latest YouTube short film. More than once I’d been hit up for an album review, and more often than not, I gave it. It was a way of getting my name out there, a portfolio I could show around to Rolling Stone and Spin.com and finally get my journalism career off the ground.
    I picked up Birdie’s card and stuffed it into my backpack. Now it was just a matter of time before Lauren, the third-shift secretary, arrived with an envelope full of investigative reports to proofread. It was easy enough work, and late at night, there was never much to do. Most nights, I could even catch a nap.
    Lauren came in, but her arms were empty of the manila folders that told us it was time to get off the couch. “Mr. Hartford would like to see you,” she said.
    None of us temps ever interacted directly with the investigators; most of them were gone by the time the third shift arrived, and we were told never to speak to them directly unless spoken to first—which, as far as I could tell, had never happened. Birdie had told me of one legal office she’d worked at where the lawyers hadused the temp lounge like a private brothel. My stomach dropped back to the first floor as the elevator doors opened.
    By the time Lauren announced my presence, I was sure I was going to black out from anxiety. Maybe I should be