“Momma, no. You didn’t ask to get sick,” I argued. “None of this is your fault.” It’s an argument we have often. In the beginning, she’d worked through her sickness, but when her twelve weeks of FMLA leave were taken up with intermittent absences for her chemo, the career she’d given twenty-three dedicated years to let her go without warning. She’d taken odd jobs after that, waitressing where I worked for a while, but nothing seemed to stick. Employers aren’t sympathetic when they’re constantly having to work around your schedule, even if it is because you’re dying.
“I know I didn’t ask for it, but you didn’t either,” she said. “But you want this job. I can see it. I promise you, I’ll be fine. If I can’t make it a week alone, we’ve got a problem.”
I smiled, though I wasn’t completely reassured. Still, what choice did we have? My eyes traveled across to the peninsula in the kitchen, the one littered with red envelopes, more final notices.
“I’ll have my phone on me,” I told her, looking back to meet her eyes. “I’ll have it with me the whole time. If you need anything—”
She patted my hand, stopping my words. “I know, baby. I know I can call you, but I won’t. If anything too bad happens, I’ll bother Betsy.”
Betsy, the nurse from next door with what I suspected was a pill problem, but who we could metaphorically borrow a cup of sugar from if the situation arose. We’d seen each other in passing through the hallways, talked enough to learn each other’s names, but that was about it.
“Mom, I don’t want you to have to do that. I should be here.”
“Autumn, I’m telling you, I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself for a week. I won’t need you.” She took a breath. “I’ll miss you, but I won’t need you.” Her smile was slight. “Now, go out there and have yourself an adventure.”
DAY ONE
Chapter Four
The next morning, I waited on the corner in front of my building, watching for the driver. My heart thudded with anticipation and worry. Mom had been in good spirits when I left, but I expected it was a front. I knew she had to be worried, how could she not be? Last time I’d left her alone overnight, she’d fallen. When I’d come home, she was unconscious and dehydrated with a broken femur. Chemotherapy had wrecked her bones, her doctors said. Even the slightest bump or fall could result in a break.
I cast a glance back to our window, thinking about calling and checking in already. I wanted her to be okay, I wanted this to all be worth it—and with a one-in-six chance of winning, it was better odds than the lottery. Still, as much as I could hope for the best, I couldn’t know if it was worth it until it was over. I took out my phone and glanced at the screen, my thoughts interrupted as a black town car pulled up in front of me.
I looked at it, wondering if I should assume it was for me. I didn’t have to wonder for too long, though, because the driver’s door opened and a bald man with dark sunglasses stepped out.
He approached me with determination. “Good morning, Miss Sanderson. Are you ready to go?”
He knew who I was, though I didn’t recognize him. He definitely hadn’t been in my interview. Did they send him a picture of me? How did they even get a picture of me? With so many questions swarming my mind, I nodded. “Um, yes.”
He took my bag, loading it into the trunk of the car before opening my door. “Here you go.”
I hesitated, much to his amusement. “I’m George,” he told me, offering a small smile and his hand. I shook it, “your driver. I’ll be taking you to your cabin for the next phase of your interview.”
“How did you…know it was me?”
“Besides the fact that you were the only one out in front of this building with a bag and a worried grimace, you mean?” He chuckled, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a phone. He scrolled through, producing an email from Tanya with a screenshot of a picture from my Instagram, turning it around to show me. “Mr. X is big into technology. I’d say he knows everything there is to know about you by now.”
His words were meant to be reassurance, but instead, a cold chill ran over me. Hopefully not everything.
Convinced my driver was legit, and slightly embarrassed I’d doubted him, I climbed into the car, moving my legs over an extra inch so he could close the door before buckling in. George jogged around to his side and climbed in.
“Any preferences on music?” he asked.
“You choose.” I was too nervous to even think about it. He seemed to understand, turning it to a station I didn’t recognize but keeping the volume low.
“Have you ever been to the Finger Lakes before?” he asked as we drove through the city. He swerved through traffic, going down side streets and alleyways with confidence.
“No, I’m new to New York. We’ve only been here a few months.” I cleared my throat. “Are you from here?”
He nodded, rubbing his head as he eyed the upcoming yellow light, before deciding to slow down. “Born and raised.”
“How…how long have you worked for Mr. X?”
He smiled and, to my surprise, answered, “Six years.”
“Do you…like it?”
“Mhm. Mr. X is good to us. He values his team.” It was the same thing Tanya had said in my interview, almost word for word.
“What should I expect for this week? Tanya didn’t say.”
I studied his eyes in the rearview mirror, watched how quickly they changed from joyful to dark and guarded. “We aren’t allowed to say. It’s different every time. It’s a nice place, where you’ll be staying. You’ll like it.”
I nodded, worry gnawing at me further. Why was everything so secretive?
“Don’t worry, Autumn,” George said, meeting my gaze in the mirror again. “It’ll all make sense with time. Mr. X is good to his team, but he wants to make sure the people he hires are…worthy.”
“Worthy? It’s just a job, right?”
He shook his head, looking away as we came upon another red light. “It’s never just a job, Autumn. It’s your life.”
Five hours later, George let me know the cabin was up ahead. It had been a mostly quiet drive. George spoke every now and again with an occasional remark or question, but for the most part he let me enjoy the peace. As much as I was filled with worry, I couldn’t deny the calm that was edging into my consciousness at the possibility of solving our financial issues once and for all. This job could fix everything. I could fix everything. I only needed to figure out exactly what Mr. X was looking for and be whatever that was.
We drove down a quiet, empty hillside, and it was hard to believe we were still in New York. There wasn’t a building or person in sight.
“There it is,” George said, his voice dramatic. When I looked up, I realized why. Dramatic was what the place deserved.
Beyond the long drive that stretched out in front of us, I could see, over to my right, a set of matching pergolas on a paved spot in the center of the perfectly manicured lawn. Several feet beyond them sat the brown house. It was large and looked to have at least two stories, with a darker brown wraparound porch surrounding the entire top floor. Hanging lights reflected off the many large windows, and there were four sets of French doors, two on each floor on opposite ends of the house. In the center, there stood a large, brick outdoor fireplace that pulled your eye to it instantly.