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make for Pierce Capital Management, I decide to take the rest of this week off.

Chapter 5
     
    Showing up uninvited is not the only thing that makes me nervous about my plan to visit Mira. Another thing that worries me is the fact that the address in question happens to be in Brooklyn.
    Why do people do that? Why live in the NYC boroughs? My moms are guilty of this as well—their choice, Staten Island, is even crazier. At least the subway goes to Brooklyn. Nothing goes to Staten Island, except the ferry and some express buses. It’s even worse than New Jersey.
    Still, I don’t have a choice. Brooklyn is the location of the address, so off to Brooklyn I go. With deep reservations, I catch the Q train at City Hall and prepare for the epic journey.
    As I sit on the subway, I read a book on my phone and occasionally look out the window. Whenever I do, I see graffiti on the walls of buildings facing the tracks. Why couldn’t this girl live someplace more civilized, like the Upper East Side?
    To my surprise, I get to my stop, Kings Highway, in less than an hour. From here, it’s a short walk to my destination, according to my phone’s GPS.
    The neighborhood is . . . well, unlike the city. No tall buildings, and the signs on businesses are worn and tacky. Streets are a little dirtier than Manhattan, too.
    The building is on East 14 th Street, between Avenues R and S. This is the only aspect of Brooklyn I appreciate. Navigating streets named using sequential numbers and letters in alphabetical order is easy.
    It’s late in the afternoon, so the sun is out, but I still feel unsafe—as though I ’ m walking at night under an ominous-looking, ill-lit bridge in Central Park. My destination is across a narrow street from a park. I try to convince myself that if people let their children play in that park, it can’t be that dangerous.
    The building is old and gloomy, but at least it’s not covered in graffiti. In fact, I realize I haven’t seen any since I got off the train. Maybe my judgment of the neighborhood was too hasty.
    Nah, probably not. It is Brooklyn.
    The building has an intercom system. I gather my courage and ring the apartment door from downstairs.
    Nothing.
    I start pressing buttons randomly, trying to find someone who might let me in. After a minute, the intercom comes alive with a loud hiss and a barely recognizable, “Who’s there?”
    “UPS,”I mumble. I ’ m not sure if it’s the plausibility of my lie or someone just working on autopilot, but I get buzzed in.
    Spotting an elevator, I press the up arrow, but nothing happens. No light comes on. No hint that anything is working.
    I wait for a couple of minutes.
    No luck.
    I grudgingly decide to schlep to the fifth floor on foot. Looks like my assessment of the neighborhood was spot on after all.
    The staircase has an unpleasant odor to it. I hope it’s not urine, but my nose suggests it is. The noxious aroma on the second floor is diluted by the smells of boiled cabbage and fried garlic. There isn’t a lot of light, and the marble steps seem slippery. Watching my step, I eventually make it to the fifth floor.
    It’s not until I’m actually staring at the door of 5E that I realize I don’t have a good plan. Or any plan at all, really. I came this far, though, so I ’ m not about to turn around and go home now. I go ahead and ring the doorbell. Then I wait. And wait. And wait.
    After a while, I hear some movement inside the apartment. Focusing, I watch the eyehole, the way I’ve seen people do in the movies.
    Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think a shadow comes across it. Someone might be looking at me.
    Still no response.
    I try knocking.
    “Who is this?”says a male voice.
    Shit. Who the hell is that? A husband? A boyfriend? Her father? Her pimp? Every scenario carries its own implications, and few promise anything good. None I can think of, actually.
    “My name is Darren,”I say, figuring that honesty is the best policy.
    No