Page 8 of Lock Every Door

“No sane person would pay a stranger to live in their luxury apartment.”

The two of us are in the living room of Chloe’s non-luxury apartment in Jersey City, seated around the coffee table that has become our regular dining spot since I started crashing here. Tonight it’s scattered with cartons of cheap Chinese takeout. Vegetable lo mein and pork fried rice.

“It’s not like it’s some kind of vacation,” I say. “It’s a legitimate job. I have to take care of the place. Cleaning and keeping an eye on things.”

Chloe pauses mid-bite, sending noodles slithering off her chopsticks. “Wait—you’re not actually going to do this, are you?”

“Of course I am. I can move in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?That’s, like, suspiciously fast.”

“They want someone there as soon as possible.”

“Jules, you know I’m not paranoid, but this is ringing all the alarm bells. What if it’s a cult?”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious. You don’t know these people. Did they even tell you what happened to the woman who lived there?”

“She died.”

“Did they say how?” Chloe says. “Or where? Maybe she died in that apartment. Maybe she was murdered.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m being cautious. There’s a difference.” Chloe takes another gulp of wine, exasperated. “Will you at least let Paul take a look at the paperwork before you sign anything?”

Chloe’s boyfriend is currently clerking at a big-time law firm while prepping for the bar exam. After the bar, they plan to get married, move to the suburbs, and have two kids and a dog. Chloe likes to joke that they’re upwardly mobile.

I’m the opposite. Sunk so low that I’m currently eating in the same spot where I’ll later be sleeping. It feels like in the span of two weeks my entire world has shrunk to the size of this couch.

“I already signed it,” I say. “A three-month contract with the possibility that it could be extended.”

That last part is a bit of an exaggeration. It was a letter of agreement instead of a contract, and Leslie Evelyn merely hinted that the late owner’s nieces and nephews might need more time to agree on what to do with the place. I say it to give the situation a veneer of professionalism. Chloe works in human resources. Contract extensions impress her.

“What about tax forms?” she says.

“What about them?”

“Did you fill one out?”

To avoid answering, I poke my chopsticks into the fried rice, seeking out bits of pork. Chloe yanks the carton from my hand and slams it onto the coffee table. Rice sprays across its surface.

“Jules, you cannot take a job that pays you under the table. That’s some shady shit right there.”

“It just means more money for me,” I say.

“It means it’s illegal.”

I grab the carton and stuff my chopsticks back into it, defiant. “All I care about is twelve thousand dollars. I need that money, Chloe.”

“I told you, I can lend you money.”

“That I won’t be able to pay back.”

“Youwill,” Chloe insists. “Eventually. Don’t do this because you think you’re being—”

“A burden?” I say.

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