"Thank you." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
He takes my suitcase without comment, though I catch a flicker of something in his eyes when he sees the broken wheel. Pity, maybe. Or judgment.
The car is waiting at the curb. Not a regular car but something sleek and black with tinted windows, the kind of vehicle that costs more than I made in the past three years combined. Robert opens the back door, and I slide into leather seats that smell like money and leather cleaner.
“There are drinks and snacks in the console," Robert says as he pulls into traffic. "And the drive will take about an hour, depending on traffic. Let me know if you need anything."
"I'm fine. Thank you."
The console has water, in glass bottles with labels I don't recognize. I take one and drink half of it in three gulps. My mouth is desert dry.
Los Angeles traffic is exactly as terrible as everyone says. We crawl along the freeway for twenty minutes before things start to open up. Then Robert takes an exit, and suddenly we're on Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean is right there.
I've seen the ocean before. Boston has the Atlantic, gray and cold and unforgiving. But this is different. The Pacific stretches out forever, deeper blue than I imagined, the late afternoon sunturning the water to gold. Houses cling to the cliffs on our right, each one more expensive-looking than the last.
"First time in California?" Robert asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"Yes."
"It's beautiful out here. You picked a good time to visit."
I don't tell him I didn't pick anything. That I'm here because someone I've never met sent me a plane ticket and I was desperate enough to use it.
The sky is changing as we drive north. Clouds roll in from the ocean, low and gray, swallowing the sun. The temperature drops, and I'm glad I brought a jacket. Robert turns on the heat without me asking.
"We're almost there," he says after another fifteen minutes. "Mr. Crawford's home is just up ahead."
Mr. Crawford. So that's his last name. What does P stand for? Patrick? Peter?
Robert turns onto a private road that winds up into the cliffs. The pavement is perfect, no potholes or cracks, lined with native plants that look carefully maintained. We pass a gate that opens automatically, then climb higher until the house comes into view.
It's not what I expected. I don't know what I expected, but not this. The house is all glass and steel and sharp angles, built into the cliff like it grew there. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the cloudy sky. Modern in a way that feels almost aggressive, like it's daring you to look away.
"The main house," Robert says, slowing the car. "You'll be staying in the guest cottage."
He drives past the main house to a smaller building tucked behind it, connected by a stone pathway. The cottage is still bigger than my apartment in Boston, with the same glass wallsand ocean views. Through the windows, I can see expensive furniture and what looks like a full kitchen.
Robert parks and gets my suitcase from the trunk. "I'll show you inside."
The cottage smells like lavender and something citrus when we enter. The floors are polished concrete, smooth and cool. There's a living area with a couch that probably costs more than my car, a kitchen with appliances I don't recognize, and through an open door, I can see the huge bedroom.
"The bathroom is through there," Robert says, pointing. "Fresh towels in the closet. Kitchen is fully stocked. If you need anything, there's a phone on the counter that connects directly to the main house."
"Thank you."
He sets my suitcase down carefully, trying not to let the broken wheel scrape the floor. "Mr. Crawford wanted me to tell you that dinner is at seven. In the main house. Someone will come get you."
"Okay."
"Is there anything else you need right now?"
"No. I'm good. Thank you for the ride."
He nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. Then I'm alone in this beautiful, terrifying space with three hours until dinner.
I walk through the cottage slowly, touching things to make sure they're real. The couch is buttery soft leather. The kitchen counters are marble, cool under my fingers. In the bedroom, there's a note on the bed, written in the same careful handwriting as before.
Rest. I'll see you at dinner. 7pm. Main house.
