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“I don't mind that.”

“She likes company. They want somebody who'll talk to her and take her out when she's up to it. You'd need to be able to drive.”

I nodded.

“And they're asking for somebody discreet. It's a private household.”

“That's fine. I'm just trying to work.”

“It sounds like something you could handle.”

“I think so.”

A live-in position would give me somewhere to stay while I saved my money. I wouldn't have to worry about finding an apartment right away. If the pay was decent, I could start putting something aside for Keenan.

“Ask about the hours and what the living arrangement would be,” Aubrey said. “You don't have to agree to anything today.”

“I won't.”

I put the crackers in my bag and grabbed my blazer.

“Wish me luck.”

“You got this. Text me when you're done.”

“I will.”

I stopped for a ginger ale on the way and took a few sips before pulling back onto the road. My stomach was still unsettled, but I hadn't thrown up again. I just needed it to cooperate for an hour.

The address Aubrey had sent took me into a neighborhood of large houses with neat lawns. I checked the time as I turned onto the street. I had seven minutes to spare.

I parked in front of a brick house with white columns and looked at the number beside the door. It matched the one on my phone.

I turned the car off and checked my wig in the mirror. One side had shifted back a little, so I fixed it before putting on some lip gloss. I couldn't do anything else about how tired I looked.

I took my folder from the passenger seat and got out. I took a deep breath and tried to center myself. I was good at what I do. And this was just a means to an end.

Halfway up the walkway, I felt another wave of nausea. I slowed down and swallowed until it passed. There was no way I was about to throw up on these people's porch.

I straightened my blouse and rang the bell.

A woman with a short highlighted bob opened the door. She wore a blue blouse and jeans, with reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Skye?”

“Yes. Good morning.”

“I'm Alisha Patterson. Come in. My mother's in the living room.”

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course.” She stepped aside. “She’s been anxious about this all morning.”

I followed her into the living room, where an older woman sat in an armchair beside the window. There was a blanket over her lap and a walker within reach.

“Mother, this is Skye. From the agency.”

Mrs. Patterson looked me over.