Present Day

I take my cup of tea and drop down on the steps that lead to the backyard. It’s one of those days when the sky is so big and so blue that you can’t resist being outside. Ryan flips a lawn mower that looks older than him upside down as if he’s going to perform surgery on it.

“What’s the prognosis?” I ask as he studies it.

He looks up, and there’s a huge streak of grease down the side of his face. “I’m calling it.” He checks his watch. “Time of death: ten forty-five a.m.”

I giggle and he spreads a rag over the machine as if he were covering a dead body. “I guess I’m headed to Home Depot.”

“Want company?” I ask.

And then there’s that smile. “Always,” he answers. “Give me a few minutes to clean up.”

He heads inside and I sit back and stare at the sky. It’s been a few days since I spied on him at the warehouse and the mailbox is still empty. There was another sighting of James and that woman last night. According to social media, they were at a local craft brewery listening to a popular local band. They have hit every hot spot in town.

The hummingbird feeder that hangs from a tree limb next to the deck draws my attention, and I watch the birds flap their little wings as they dart in and out to get a drink. Every morning, Ryan refills that feeder just like his grandmother probably did.

Mama would have loved it here.

We spent many nights dreaming up the fantasy house we’d one day build. I used to think she just hated the trailer. Or was embarrassed by it. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized Mama wanted more for us than just a bigger roof over our heads. She wanted a different way of life. One where you didn’t worry about having enough grocery money. One where she wouldn’t worry about what would happen to me once she was gone.

“Ready?” Ryan asks from the patio door.

“Yep.” I glance once more at the birds, then hop to my feet, following him back inside to the kitchen door that will lead us to the garage.

As we slowly wander down the aisles of Home Depot, Ryan studies each mower, then checks reviews on his phone before narrowing it down.

“I’m going to look at the plants,” I say after he has stared at the same three mowers for twenty minutes.

“Grab a buggy. We need something for the front porch.” He tears his gaze away from the machines in front of him and looks at me. “Maybe some ferns?”

“The ones that hang?” I ask.

He shrugs, then nods, letting me know it’s my decision because in his mind, it’s my house too. We are the epitome of a domestic couple. All we’re missing is a couple of Starbucks and some hand-holding.

The garden section is an oasis in a sea of tools, lumber, and electrical supplies. I take my time, passing trays of geraniums and petunias and pansies, and think about what I would add to the flower beds in the front yard if it was truly mine to do with as I wished. As if I would be here to see them in full bloom. Distracted by the prettiest pink hydrangeas I’ve ever seen, my cart clips the side of one coming from the opposite direction.

“Oh, sorry!” And then I nearly freeze when I see it’s James and the woman pretending to be me.

“Oh, hey!” she says. “I think we met at that Derby party!”

I hope the smile that spreads across my face hides the internal eye roll at her words. Nodding to them both, I say, “Yes, of course.”

Could she not know who I really am? That she was sent here as some threat to replace me? Because she’s good. Really good. There’s not a flick of recognition nor a long look that sizes me up as her obvious opponent. There is a chance she’s still in the “waiting for information” stage of her job, but does she not find the unmistakable resemblance between us as jarring as I do? Even though my hair is darker, it’s uncanny.

“Dad usually freshens up the beds for Mom, but he’s out of commission right now, so we thought we’d do it for him since it’s such a pretty day,” James says, nodding to the plants in his cart.

“Aw, what a good son,” I say, my back teeth grinding.

“James, hey man!” I hear Ryan say from behind me. He jogs up and the two of them shake hands, then Ryan nods a greeting at the woman. “Lucca.” He looks at her then back at me before once again looking at her.

He sees the similarities too.

Ryan clears his throat then turns back to me and says, “I picked one and they’re bringing it to the checkout in here. Thought I’d come help with the plants.”

James laughs. “Damn, when did we get so old that a beautiful spring day meant yard work? We should be on the lake, icing down some beer.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Ryan says, but I know if given the option, we’d still leave here and spend the day in the yard, saving the lake and beer for after the work is done.

“Another time,” James says. The small talk lasts a few more minutes while she and I just watch each other. They start to move away, but I put a hand on James’s arm, stopping them. “I was just thinking—do you two have plans for tonight?” I glance quickly at Ryan and then back to them. She’s been dancing just out of my reach for too long. “We’d love it if you came over for dinner.”

She beams at the invitation.

“We’d love that,” James answers for them. “What can we bring?” “Nothing! We’ve got it.” I look at the woman. “Can’t wait!”

‌Alias: Izzy Williams—Eight Years Ago‌

This is the first job where my fake name and background has the backup to support it. I even googled my new name, Isabelle Williams, Izzy for short, and found that I was listed as a member of the cross- country team who competed at state for a local high school a few years ago. Somehow the picture that accompanied the article included a grainy group photo, and I could swear I was the third girl on the right, complete with short blond hair, like the wig I’m wearing right now.

It makes me wonder how many people Mr. Smith has working for him. Not just people being sent on jobs like me but those working behind the scenes, altering images that show up on internet searches and creating identities from thin air.

The only other person I’ve dealt with is Matt, but it feels like whatever this organization is, it’s much bigger than just him and Mr. Smith.

There was a lot to do to get ready for this job. I was given instructions on how to pull my natural hair up and secure it under the wig so that there was no chance any of my strands would be left uncovered. I was also told to apply a thick layer of liquid bandage to the tip of each finger so no matter what I touch while I’m here, I wouldn’t leave a fingerprint behind. I’m to reapply it every couple of hours. I rub my fingers together, still trying to get used to the lack of feeling there. I added the contoured makeup and colored contacts on my own. Mama taught me how a few strokes of powder can change the shape and look of your entire face—although I know she would only have wanted me to use those tricks to enhance my face, not to make it unrecognizable.

It’s the first day of my first job for Mr. Smith, and I have to admit, I’m a little nervous. As far as Greg and Jenny Kingston know, I’m the new nanny for their son, Miles. But in truth, Greg has something in this house that my boss wants, and I’m here to get it for him.

There were a lot of instructions of how to handle items, as well. The second I retrieve the item I’m sent for, I am to drop it at a predesignated spot as soon as possible. It’s harder to get caught if you aren’t in possession of what you stole when they catch you.

Walking up to the front porch, I smooth down my shirt and shorts before ringing the doorbell.

Greg opens the door immediately, as if he has been waiting for me to arrive. He’s wearing a gray suit with a darker gray tie, and his hair looks like it hasn’t changed since he was a young boy. Short and combed to the side, not a strand out of place.

“Isabelle Williams?” he asks, then looks me up and down. I’m dressed exactly as instructed. Khaki shorts that hit two inches above the knee and a pink polo shirt. I look like I’m ready for a round of golf.

My hand reaches out for his and we shake. “Yes, sir. Mr. Kingston. You can call me Izzy.”

He nods and gestures for me to come inside. He checks his watch for the second time since he’s opened the door, then yells toward the wraparound stairs that curve up the foyer wall. “Jenny! She’s here!”

Both of our gazes are trained on the upper landing as we wait for Jenny to show herself. She doesn’t.

Greg booms her name out again and again we wait.

He’s irritated. And slightly embarrassed. “Excuse me one moment,” he mutters, and then he’s gone.

Taking the steps two at a time, he is out of sight within seconds. “Are you the new babysitter?”

I spin around to find Miles behind me. He’s in the middle of a doorway that leads to the dining room, then eventually the kitchen, according to the blueprints I studied.

Moving toward him slowly, I stop when I’m a few feet away and squat down until I’m on his level. “I am. My name is Izzy. What’s yours?” I ask, even though I already know his name and just about everything about him. Matt gave me a packet that covered every detail about this family when I agreed to work for Mr. Smith. Miles is five years old, an only child, and I’m the fourth nanny that he’s had already this year.

His thumb pops back into his mouth as soon as he tells me his name, even though he looks a little too old for that.

I point to his shirt. “Iron Man is my favorite.”

He pulls his shirt away from his body to look down at it as if he needs a reminder of what he’s wearing. It’s a shirt with all the Marvel characters in their fighting stance poses.

“I like the Hulk. He smashes things,” he says, then adds the growl and fists his hands.

I’m about to ask another question, but there’s movement on the stairs that draws our attention.

Greg has located Jenny and is now pulling her down the stairs. She almost stumbles once they clear the last step, as if she’s unaware there are no more in front of her.

“Izzy, this is my wife, Mrs. Kingston.” His grip on her arm seems to be the only thing keeping her standing.

Jenny looks at me and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Another thing I know—Jenny likes her Xanax in the morning, her Chardonnay in the afternoon, and a vodka or three in the evening.

I reach out my hand and she clasps it with both of hers. “Izzy, it’s so nice to meet you!”

She holds on to me longer than is comfortable, and thankfully Miles moves closer, causing her attention to switch to him.

“There you are, sweetheart! Did you get your breakfast?” Miles nods but doesn’t say anything else.

“Right, okay, I’ve got to get to the office,” Greg says, then turns to me. “You are in charge of Miles. His schedule is written out and taped to the fridge; my number is on the bottom. He can give you a tour of the house and show you where everything is. I’ll be home by six.”

He ruffles Miles’s hair and spins toward the door. There is no good-bye to Jenny or even a look in her direction.

The three of us stand awkwardly in the foyer for a few seconds until Jenny leans down and kisses Miles on the cheek, gives me a great big smile, and drifts back up the stairs.

“Want me to show you around?” Miles asks.

“Yes, give me the grand tour,” I say as I follow him through the door he came through earlier.

Mama used to say I would recognize the life I was meant to have. I look around this house and think about what it would feel like if this identity were real and I was Izzy Williams, college student and nanny to Miles Kingston.

One thing is for sure, this is definitely not the life for me.

Five days down and I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

What I have found is that Miles runs this house. He knows when the housekeeper arrives, he knows where the petty cash is kept so she can pick up the week’s groceries, and he knows when Jenny moves from pills to pours. When the wine flows, so do the tears, and we make ourselves scarce.

While she’s melancholy when it comes to Miles, Jenny is almost vicious when it comes to me. She’s all smiles when Greg is around, but the second he leaves, her claws come out. She doesn’t want me in her house. Doesn’t want me spending time with her son. But she’s too drunk and high to change either of those things.

Miles and I play with Legos. We build forts. We sing songs. And I search and search and search.

Not going to lie. This job gets harder each day. Because as soon as I retrieve what I was sent here for, I’m gone. And who will take care of Miles?

But it’s dangerous to think like that. So every day, I add a brick to the wall inside of me that will, I hope, seal myself off from this blond-haired, blue-eyed child who is way too old for his age.

On day eight, I’m able to get inside Jenny’s bedroom. Finally.

I don’t have access to this part of the house often since this is where Jenny spends most of her time. Whenever she ventures out of her room, Miles sticks to me like glue. Right now, Miles is napping and Jenny is soaking in the bath, a thin door separating her from me.

Does she stay in there for hours? Is it a quick rinse and out? Who knows. But I can’t afford to lose this opportunity just because I don’t know what to expect.

I wander the room, giving everything a critical eye. I’m looking for a flash drive, one exactly like the flash drive in my pocket that I’ll leave in its place. There are tons of places something that small could be hidden. I have looked in every drawer, nook, and cranny in Greg’s office without luck. I’d dig through his sock drawer if that’s where he hid his valuables.

I’m beginning to think that just because the blueprints don’t show a built-in safe, they might have added one after they bought this house, so now I’m on the hunt for that because I don’t want to fail on my first job.

Several pieces of Jenny’s jewelry are scattered carelessly across the top of a delicate antique desk. These pieces are exquisite, and I’m mentally removing the stones from the settings while calculating the price each would fetch.

But that’s not why I’m here, so I force myself to walk away from them.

I open drawers and rummage through every part of the room. It’s big enough that there’s a sitting area tucked in a corner near the door that leads to the bathroom. Inching into that space, I stay perfectly quiet while I listen to Jenny sing off-key in the tub.

The framed family portrait of the Kingstons hanging on the wall depicts a perfect little trio that doesn’t reflect what life is really like in this house. I’m sure Jenny shared this picture on social media to make everyone believe things are as rosy as that image suggests. I tug on the corner of the frame, just like I’ve done to every other piece of wall art in the house, and stop myself from celebrating when it swings open, revealing a small safe set into the wall. I pull on the handle but it’s firmly locked in place.

Staring at the ten-number keypad, I start to sweat. There are a lot of things I can do, but cracking safes is not one of them. I pull out the phone that Matt gave me for emergencies only.

This is an emergency.

Luckily, he answers on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “I found a safe. It’s got a keypad and I don’t have a lot of time. What do I do?” “Take a pic and send it to me.”

I do as he asks and then wait for him to get it.

“It’s simple. Doesn’t look like it’s hooked up to a system. Try a four-digit number and see what it does.”

I punch in 2580 because I read once that is the most common passcode since it is the only four-digit vertical combo.

“One beep and the little light flashed red once.”

Matt is quiet on the other line for a few seconds then says, “Try the kid’s birthday.”

I read all the important dates from the packet they gave me before I started and have no problem retrieving the exact number from memory. I press in 1017. October 17.

“One beep and two red lights.”

“Shit,” Matt spits out from the other line. “I bet this is a ‘three times wrong, you’re locked out for good’ system. It probably resets after a certain amount of time. Maybe twenty-four hours. Stay put and try again tomorrow.”

And the line goes dead.

I deflate. I need out of this house. Splashing from the bathroom makes me freeze, then I hear Jenny singing that same stupid song she’s been singing for two days. The water turns back on, probably because she’s been in there so long it’s gotten chilly.

I stare at the keypad as my mind scrolls through the important dates and numbers from the Kingston file. Then I think about Greg. I can tell he loves Miles even though he’s not a hands-on kind of dad. He’ll text through the day asking how he’s doing and seems generally interested in talking to Miles when he gets home every night. The code isn’t his birthday, though.

Jenny lets out a loud laugh. I can only imagine what’s going on in there while she bathes alone.

Why hasn’t Greg booted her out of this house by now? He’s obviously got enough money to hire all the help he needs. He only talks to Jenny when he has to, although there are times I find him watching her with a sad expression. An expression that shows there’s still love there, even though he hates what she’s turned into. Could the code be her birthday? Their anniversary? Greg tries to hide it, but he sleeps in the guest room every night, and there is only one picture beside the bed. It’s of Greg and Jenny. They are young and all smiles, their faces squished together, cheek to cheek. Behind them, the sky is full of fireworks. There’s a good chance this picture was taken on their first date, at the Fourth of July picnic at the country club.

I stare at the keypad, hold my breath, and type in 0704. There are a few seconds where nothing happens and then the light blinks green and I hear the lock slide open.

My breath lets loose and I almost scream for joy. I did it!

I pull the door open and the only thing inside is the red flash drive with the blue cap, just like the corrupted fake in my pocket I will leave behind in its place. It will also make whatever computer he inserts the replacement into useless. While Greg will freak out and wonder what went wrong, he should be oblivious a swap was made.

As I’m making the switch, Jenny laughs again but it’s closer than before. She’s out of the bathroom and staring at me.

“I’ve been watching you snoop around my house for the last week.” Her words are slurred and her eyes are half closed. A puddle forms on the hardwood floor from the water dripping off her naked body, visible through her open robe.

This is bad. Very bad. She has caught me red-handed. “It’s not what you think,” I say.

She sways and lets out a shrill laugh. “Of course it is. It’s exactly what I think it is.” Jenny lurches at me, her hands out as if she’s either going to grab me or strike me, but her foot gets tangled up in the sash hanging from her robe and she’s going down before I can catch her. Her head hits the floor with a loud crack and a thin river of blood runs from under her blond hair. She’s out cold.

“Oh shit,” I whisper, dropping down beside her. My fingers press against her neck to check for a pulse.

I call Matt again.

“I’ve got it,” I say as soon as he answers. “But the wife caught me. She’s drunk, tripped and fell. Her head is bleeding.”

“Is she dead?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“No. But she needs help. Should I call 911?”

“So she can tell the cops she caught you stealing from them?” Matt spits out. “Get the fuck out of there and bring the drive.”

“What about Miles?” While there is no love lost between Jenny and me, that little boy deserves better. “Get out of there now! You can’t be caught there like this. Kingston doesn’t have shit to go on if

you’re gone.” Matt screams so loud it echoes in the room. “Get your ass out of that house.” And then the line goes dead.

I’m scared to touch her again. Can I leave her like this? Can I leave Miles? But if I stay, I could go to jail. She’ll tell them I was robbing them. They may even blame me for her fall. She’ll say I pushed her.

I pull the other phone from my pocket, the one Greg calls to check on Miles. The one that is only powered on once I step inside the Kingstons’ house.

“Hello,” Greg answers.

“There’s a problem. I came upstairs to tell Mrs. Kingston I have a family emergency and that I need to leave immediately but she’s unconscious on the floor. She must have fallen. Miles is asleep on the couch in the playroom. You need to come home. I have my own family emergency so I can’t stay.”

“Wait—”

But I’ve already ended the call. I drop the fake drive in the safe then close it before swinging the picture back in place. Miles is the only reason I’m risking myself like this.

Greg can call 911. He can come home and deal with this. I have to trust the fake name, the steps I’ve taken to hide my identity. I race down the stairs and peek in on Miles one last time. His little face is lost in sleep, and the origami swan I taught him to make, just like Mama taught me, is clutched in his tiny hand. He’ll be fine. His dad will be here soon. He’s not my problem.

I dart out of the back door, and creep along the side of the house until I’m on the street and jumping into the car Matt gave me to use for this job. As I’m exiting the gated neighborhood, an ambulance squeals past me followed by a cop car.

I keep my head down and drive the speed limit. Will they pull footage at the guard’s gate? Have a pic of me in this car? How soon before the cops start looking for me?

It takes ten minutes to get to AAA Bail Bonds. I was told to never come back here, but this is obviously not a normal situation.

Matt is pacing the street, waiting for me.

My door is ripped open before I come to a complete stop. “What the fuck took you so long?” He pulls me out of the car and into the building. We don’t stop until we get to his office.

“I got here as soon as I could,” I say as I hand him the drive and then place the phone I used for my calls with Greg on the desk. I don’t mention my call to him—the call I deleted from the log just before I powered it off, in case he checks.

I wonder if Miles woke up and found her before his dad got there. No. I can’t think about him.

Matt has the drive in his palm, and he’s tapping away on his phone. He reads whatever’s there then flinches when his phone rings.

“Yes.” He looks at me, his eyes boring into mine, then passes me the phone. I hesitate for just a second then take it from him.

“Hello,” I whisper.

“Give me the events of this afternoon. Do not leave anything out.” Mr. Smith’s disguised voice hides the anger his real voice would carry.

I tell him everything, including how I figured out the code to the safe. Everything except the call to Greg.

“You’re feeling guilty over leaving Jenny Kingston bleeding on the floor.” It’s not a question but I answer. “Yes.”

“It was only a matter of time before that was going to happen. If not today, then tomorrow, or the next.

She’s been working in that direction for a long while.”

I’m quiet. While that may be true, I can’t help but think it wouldn’t have happened today if I hadn’t been in her room, rummaging through their safe. She would have come out of the bathroom and sunk into her bed, just like she did every other day I was there. So if she is successful today, then that’s on me.

“Yes, I know,” I answer him.

“You got the job done, but you were reckless. Taking a chance with the safe. Letting that drunk sneak up on you. You’re better than that.”

And he’s right. I am better than that. I should have noticed that she stopped singing. I should have heard her clumsy footsteps cross the bathroom floor. I should have heard the turn of the knob on the door.

“What would you have done if she hadn’t fallen on her own?” he asks me.

“I don’t know,” I answer quickly. And that’s the truth. What lengths would I have taken to ensure I got away? I guess I’ll never know.

“I’ll answer that for you. You do whatever you have to do to save yourself and the job. Because never forget this is a job. You are not a part of that family. That is not your life. Not your world. You’re a ghost

who drifted through it for a little bit of time. Those people don’t give a shit about you, so don’t give a shit about them.”

I’m quiet as he continues to unload on me. His words are like a knife to the chest.

“I watched you for a long while. You got as far as you did on your own because you are resourceful and can think on your feet. You also have that natural intuition that can’t be learned. Those are gifts. Gifts you almost squandered today. I understand you felt the need to call Matt for help when you found the safe, but calling in is a last resort. Asking for help becomes a crutch. I need people who can problem solve without outside assistance, because aid isn’t always available. That woman slipped up on you because you were more worried about rushing the job and leaning on Matt for help. You should have taken a step back. Done research on the safe. Determined how to get in without the code. Not break your identity by making a fucking phone call while his goddamn wife was soaking in the tub in the next room.” The obscenities seem more vulgar coming from the mechanical voice. It’s not the pep talk I expected, but surprisingly it was the pep talk I needed. And he’s absolutely right. I was rushing the job. I didn’t want

to spend another day getting more attached to Miles.

Going forward I have to do better. I will be better. This was a tough lesson to learn.

It’s crushing for him to lay the truth out like that. Even though I will remember Miles and this job for the rest of my life, he will no doubt forget about me. But Mr. Smith is wrong. I’m not just a ghost who passed through the Kingstons’ life.

I am a ghost passing through my own life.

The only one who cares about me is me. The only one who is going to make sure I survive is me. I am on my own.

He finally says, “Money will be transferred to your account for the completion of this job. Instructions for your next job will arrive within the week. Take a few days to pack your things, since your next job will require relocating. I can’t risk you running into the Kingstons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The ambulance has already taken Mrs. Kingston from the residence and the police are questioning Mr. Kingston as we speak. Next time I ask you to tell me every detail, don’t leave a single fucking thing out.”

I take a deep breath and hold it in until there’s a slight burn in my chest and my head feels a little fuzzy. Letting the air out in a quiet whoosh, I whisper, “I’ll be better. No mistakes.” Silently, I add, And I will never get attached on the job again.

“No mistakes,” he repeats.