Basically it all comes down to the fact that one rich dude told another rich dude to find some rich ditz who wouldn’t mind acting as a paid companion.

Not exactly the stuff Nobel Peace Prizes are made of, but I can’t bring myself to care. Whether I got the job because of connections or because of sheer luck (it’s certainly not because of skill), it’s still a ticket out of New York. It’s still an escape.

But all that being said, I don’t know much about my client. I mean, I know Harry Langdon is an elderly businessman with a shit-ton of money. But as for his son? No idea.

Not because I wasn’t curious. Google would have told me what I needed to know in a heartbeat. And God knows, a little research would have been prudent. But honestly? I’ve been scared to death that all it’ll take is one gruesome picture or detailed account of his injuries to have me backing out of the whole thing.

I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not used to ugly. And from what Mr. Langdon has implied so far, whatever happened to his son was very ugly indeed.

I barely managed to get myself on the plane this morning as it was. The last thing I needed was to know what I was getting into. But now I’m here with no chance of backing out, and keeping my head in the sand is no longer an option.

I can’t stop thinking about how sad Mick’s voice was when he talked about Paul. No, Mr. Paul. Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here.

I pull my cell phone out of my purse, scrolling through the barrage of texts awaiting me.

Mom: Call me as soon as you’re settled. Remember, nobody will think less of you if you decide you want to come home early.

Dad: Olive. Call if you need anything. Proud of you.

Bella: Miss you already. You’re the hottest Florence Nightingale I know.

Andrea: U there yet? my aunt and uncle have a summer home in Vermont if u get creeped out taking care of an old dude and need an escape. xoxoxoxoxo.

The rest, from my friends, are a mixture of support and skepticism that I’ll see this through. I freeze when I get to Michael’s, though: Call me when you quit running. I delete it.

But it’s the last message that really eats at me. Ethan and I haven’t had any contact since I tried—and failed—to get him back a couple of months ago, yet he cares enough to reach out with a simple Good luck, Liv.

I read those three simple words about five times, but I’m unable to find any hidden meaning. That’s the kind of guy Ethan is. He’s simply good.

I didn’t deserve him.

I respond to my parents, letting them know that I’ve arrived safely and that everything’s okay, but don’t reply to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’d say. Although the flight from New York to Maine was only a little over an hour, I already feel completely detached from my old life. The feeling is unsettling, but also freeing. As though maybe I really can start over.

I start to go about my initial task of Googling Paul Langdon, but the coverage is spotty, and before my phone can load the search results, cell service has gone from spotty to nonexistent.

Fantastic.

I put the phone away and lean back in my seat, letting my mind wander. I alternate between worst-case-scenario visions of what lies ahead (just one more thing you can screw up) and Pollyanna pep talks (you’ve got this) for most of the drive, but I sit up a little straighter when I catch sight of water through the trees, and I strain to get a better look.

Mick sees my movement. “That’s Frenchman Bay. It’s even prettier on a sunny day.”

I nod, but I actually sort of like that it’s overcast. It seems to suit my mood. The glimpses of water become more and more frequent, and even with the gray skies, it looks like a postcard.

“How much longer?” I ask. My palms are clammy.

“Not long. The Langdon estates are right on the water outside of town.”

Langdon estates? Interesting. There’s rich, and then there’s rich. Now I’m really wishing that my online research on the Langdons had been more thorough.

And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, and I’m wishing I’d hired a full-on private investigator because I’m pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God stable.

“How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.

He doesn’t meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.

Got it. No chitchat about our employer.

Then I see the house. Actually, house is a stretch. It’s more like a compound.

There are at least three buildings within easy walking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I’ve been to. I’m still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It’s three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high peaks.

I can’t help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I’m trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit . . . it’s not a bad place to banish oneself.

“Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,’ as we call it.”