Even fifty bucks could up my chances of survival.
At first, I don’t see anything along the lines of what I’m looking for, and I’m about to fold the paper in disappointment when a listing at the bottom of the page catches my attention:
Live-in tutor wanted for four-year-old. Must be well-educated, good with children, and willing to relocate to a remote mountain estate. $3K/week cash. To apply, email resume to [email protected].
Three grand a week in cash? What the fuck?
Unable to believe my eyes, I reread the ad.
Nope, all the words are still the same, which is insane. Three grand a week for a tutor? In cash?
It’s a hoax, it’s got to be.
Heart pounding, I finish filling up the tank and get into the car. My mind is racing. I’m the perfect candidate for this position. Not only have I just graduated with an Education Studies major, but I’ve babysat and tutored kids all through high school and college. And relocation to a remote mountain estate? Sign me up! The more remote, the better.
It’s as if the ad was crafted just for me.
Wait a minute. Could this be a trap?
No, that’s truly paranoid thinking. Ever since this morning’s close call, I’ve been driving aimlessly with the sole goal of putting as much distance between myself and Boise as possible while staying off the major roads and highways to avoid traffic cameras. My pursuers would’ve had to have a crystal ball to guess that I’d end up in this remote area, much less pick up this local paper. The only way this could be a trap is if they’d placed similar ads in all the newspapers across the country, as well as on all the major job sites, and even then, it feels like a stretch.
No, this is unlikely to be a trap set specifically for me, but it could be something equally sinister.
I hesitate for a moment, then get out of the car and go back into the store.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, approaching the elderly cashier. “Do you live in this area?”
“Why, yes, dearie.” A smile brightens her wrinkled face. “Elkwood Creek born and bred.”
“Great. In that case”—I unfold the newspaper and place it on the counter—“do you know anything about this?” I point at the ad.
She pulls out a pair of reading glasses and squints at the small text. “Huh. Three grand a week for a tutor—must be even richer than they say.”
My pulse jumps in excitement. “You know who placed this ad?”
She looks up, rheumy eyes blinking behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “Well, I can’t be certain, dearie, but rumor has it, some wealthy Russian bought out the old Jamieson property, way up in the mountains, and built a brand-new place there. Has been hiring local boys for some random jobs here and there, always paying cash. No one’s said anything about a kid, though, so it might not be him—but I can’t think of anyone else around these parts with that kind of money, much less anything close to an estate.”
Holy shit. This may actually be for real. A rich foreigner—that would explain both the too-high salary and its cash nature. The man—or more likely the couple, since there’s a child involved—may not know the going rate for tutors around here, or may not care. When you’re wealthy enough, a few grand may be no more meaningful than a few pennies. For me, though, a single week’s paycheck could mean the difference between life and death, and if I were to earn that kind of money for a month, I’d be able to buy another used car—and maybe even some fake papers, so I could get out of the country and disappear for good.
Best of all, if the estate is remote enough, it may take a while before my pursuers find me there—if they ever do. With a cash salary, there would be no paper trail, nothing to connect me to the Russian couple.
This job could be the answer to all my prayers… if I get it, that is.
“Is there a public library anywhere around here?” I ask, trying to temper my excitement. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Even if my resume is the best they get, the hiring process could take weeks or months, and it’s not safe to stick around here that long.
If they found me in Boise, they’ll find me here too.
It’s only a matter of time.
The cashier beams at me. “Why, yes, dearie. Just drive north about ten miles, and when you see the first buildings, take a left, drive past two intersections, and it’ll be on your left, right next to the sheriff’s office.”
“Wonderful, thank you. Do you have a pen?” When she hands it to me, I jot down the directions on the front of the newspaper.
Not having a smartphone with GPS sucks.
“Have a nice day,” I tell the elderly lady, and when I head out this time, there’s a definite bounce in my step.
The tiny library closes at five p.m., so I hurriedly put together my resume and cover letter on one of the public computers, then email both to the address indicated in the ad. Instead of a phone number and email address, I put only my email on the resume; hopefully, that will suffice.
By the time I’m done, the library is closing, so I get back into my car and drive out of the small town, randomly turning onto narrow, winding roads until I find what I’m looking for.
A clearing in the woods where I can park my Toyota behind the trees, out of sight of anyone driving by.
With the car safely situated, I open the trunk and take out another sweater from the suitcase I was lucky enough to have with me when my life went to pieces. Rolling up the sweater, I stretch out on the backseat, place the makeshift pillow under my head, and close my eyes.
My last thought before sleep drags me under is the hope that I stay alive long enough to hear back about the job.
2
Nikolai
A knock on the door distracts me from the email I’m reading, and I look up from my laptop as Alina opens the door and gracefully steps into my office.
“We got a promising application tonight,” she says, approaching my desk. “Here, take a look.” She hands me a thick folder.
I open it. A driver’s license photo of a striking young woman stares at me from the front page. Her brown eyes are so big they dominate her small, diamond-shaped face, and even on the grainy printout, her bronzed skin seems to glow, as if lit from within by an invisible candle. But it’s her mouth that catches my attention. Small yet perfectly plump, it’s a mix between a doll’s Cupid-bow pout and something one might find on a porn star.
She’s not smiling in this picture; her expression is solemn, her hair pulled back in either a tight ponytail or a bun. The next page, however, has a picture of her laughing, her head thrown back and her face framed by golden-brown waves that disappear below her slender shoulders. She’s beautiful in this photo, and so radiant that I feel something inside me go dangerously still and quiet even as my pulse quickens with a primal male response.
Suppressing the bizarre reaction, I flip the page back and read the info on the driver’s license.
Chloe Emmons is twenty-three years old, five-foot-four, and resides in Boston, Massachusetts—which means she’s a long way from home.
“How did she hear about this position?” I ask, glancing up at Alina. “I thought we only placed the ad in the local papers.”