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Thomas Walsh was no stranger to the odd job. It was the sort of thing one stumbled into in the gap between high school and college. The previous winter, he’d spent the chilly Massachusetts months shoveling driveways until his arms were numb. Spent his mornings laying down salt, his afternoons learning to work a plow. In the spring, after everyone had largely stopped asking why he hadn’t returned to school, he’d taken a part-time gig with his uncle, stapling shingles onto hot rooftops until the skin on the back of his neck turned lobster red.

He mowed lawns. He mucked stalls. He shoveled horse shit into wheelbarrows and dumped it into reeking compost gardens. He sat for two betta fish that seemed determined to go belly-up, an ancient cockatoo that wouldn’t quit wolf-whistling at him, and seven geriatric cats.

He scooped a lot of cat shit.

It still wasn’t enough. The stack of bills on his mother’s counter piled higher. Red past-due notices slid in through the mail slot. Upstairs in her bed, his mom watched her soaps and took her medicines and assured him that things were fine, just fine.

But his mom was a liar.

And so, Thomas cleaned kitty litter without complaining. He unclogged public toilets and he counted every penny. He took whatever job came his way.

This one was going to be no different.

That was what he told himself as he sat in the silence of the Farrow family’s sitting room and clung to a highball glass of expensive cognac. He was only eighteen—hardly legal drinking age—but he supposed that sort of thing didn’t matter to people like Philip Farrow, self-made millionaire and managing partner of Farrow & Goldman Litigation.

Across from him sat Philip Farrow himself, a veritable king of the castle in a custom-tailored three-piece. Stuffed into his father’s old funeral suit, Thomas felt deeply out of place. He wondered if Philip Farrow would think differently of him if he knew how much time Thomas had spent shoveling kitty litter in the past week alone.

A man like Farrow was liable to expect applicants with sterling references and an Ivy League background. Not college dropouts with a less-than-impressive disciplinary record.

And yet here Thomas sat.

“We expect your discretion, of course,” Philip said. “That’s first and foremost. Our family is very private. Anything you see or hear while on the job is considered a family matter and, as such, should be kept strictly within the family.”

Thomas held tight to his sweating glass. “Understood.”

“We’ve interviewed a number of interpreters. None of them were quite suited to the specific demands of the job. But you are, aren’t you?”

“I hope so, sir.”

That had been the first requirement listed in the letter he’d received, typed up on the Farrow & Goldman Litigation stationery: A fluent understanding of signed language is a necessary prerequisite for the position.

As the hearing child of a deaf mother, Thomas had learned to speak with his hands well before he said his first words. It was second nature to him now, born out of years of habit, but that was all it was.

“Like I told you over the phone,” he said, “I’m not a certified interpreter.”

“Ahh.” Philip waved him off. “I’m not worried about that. What’s a certification but a piece of paper? I’m more interested in experience .”

Thomas considered telling him that was exactly the problem—he didn’t have experience. Not in a professional capacity, anyway. He watched Philip Farrow take a large swallow of cognac and wondered if he should do the same. If it was rude to keep clutching at his glass this way, without ever taking a taste.

“Vivi can be extremely particular,” slid a voice from the curtains. Philip’s wife, Amelia, stood twisted in the drapes, peering out at the driveway. “Don’t forget to tell him that.”

Philip undid the top button on his jacket and carried on as though his wife hadn’t spoken at all. “Other than on special occasions, Vivienne is expected to observe a strict curfew. The sun sets at eight thirty. She knows she’s expected home no later than eight fifteen, although she sometimes needs a bit of a nudge, if you catch my meaning.”

“I understand,” said Thomas, though it occurred to him that it wasn’t normally the job of an interpreter to nudge a client one way or another. He refrained from saying so. He’d been in Philip’s presence for all of ten minutes, and already he could tell the man wasn’t the sort of person who took kindly to being contradicted. Thomas had spent the last of his gas money for the drive to Greenwich that morning. He wasn’t about to do or say anything that might get him sent home.

As it was, Philip was beaming across the room at him. He looked deeply pleased with himself, as though he’d personally dug Thomas out of the earth like a red, ripe ruby.

“You’re a good kid,” he said, and raised his glass in a toast. “Responsible. Dedicated. Loyal to your core. I’ve got a good sense for these sorts of things.”

At the window, Amelia let out a sound that—on someone less refined—might have been mistaken for a scoff. The twitch in Philip’s left eye was nearly imperceptible.

“Between summer classes and her numerous social engagements, Vivienne has a packed schedule. You’ll accompany her whenever she leaves the house. We’ve had the maid bring your things into one of the guest rooms.”

That was the letter’s second requirement: The offer stands on the new hire’s ability to live on site for the duration of the contract.

That stipulation had nearly caused Thomas to turn down the offer outright. He hadn’t wanted to leave his mother’s side. Not these days, when—though she pretended otherwise—she was too sick to get out of bed. He’d wanted to stay close, and yet the debt collectors kept calling the house and the mortgage company kept stuffing letters under the door. Little by little, their health savings account ran dry.

In the end, the promise of a steady paycheck had been too good to pass up.

A steady, hefty paycheck.

“I outlined it all in the letter, of course,” said Philip, sizing him up over the lip of his drink, “but Vivienne has chosen, for quite some time now, not to speak.”

“She hasn’t chosen ,” hissed Amelia. “She’s been traumatized into silence.”

“Amelia.”

Her name was a warning. She didn’t heed it.

“ What? If he’s going to live under our roof, you might as well tell him.”

A terse silence followed. For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the clink of ice, the muffled hum of the landscaper’s string trimmer.

“All in due time,” said Philip, draining his glass. Fixing his gaze on Thomas, he smiled thinly. “I’m quite certain you didn’t drive all this way without doing some digging of your own. Kids your age can find just about anything on the internet. I take it you’ve seen Vivienne’s numerous social media accounts?”

“I’ve seen them, sir,” Thomas admitted, since there was no point in lying.

“She’s a pretty girl, our Vivienne,” said Philip. “I’m sure you noticed.”

Thomas’s voice lodged inside his throat. Every answer felt like the wrong one.

“Philip.” Amelia reappeared from behind the curtains. “This isn’t the courtroom. Don’t make him uncomfortable.”

“What? The boy has eyes. She’s a looker, isn’t she, Walsh?”

“She is, sir.” The words came out flat.

“That’s right, she is.” Philip looked mollified by Thomas’s cooperation. “And in spite of our best efforts, she’s not particularly careful about what she posts online. A girl like that tends to draw attention. All kinds of attention. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m, er, not sure I do.”

“Vivienne has spent her life in something of a bubble. I’ll take the blame for that—we’ve always been overprotective. And who can blame us, given the state of the world?”

This time, the scoff from Amelia was unmistakable. Philip’s smile flickered.

“Over the past year,” he went on, “her online presence has popped that bubble. She’s meeting new people. Unsavory people, well outside our trusted circles. Her mother and I are concerned that these new friends of hers may be negatively impacting her ability to make safe decisions.”

“That’s a whole lot of words to say what you really want from him,” Amelia snapped, finally emerging from behind the curtains. “Don’t beat around the bush. Just come right out and tell him. He’s here to play the part of your little spider.”

Thomas’s unease opened into a gulf inside his chest.

“There’s no need for histrionics,” said Philip, plucking at an invisible bit of lint. “If Walsh overhears something that he feels puts Vivienne’s safety at risk, I expect him to let me know. It’s hardly covert espionage.”

“It’s a violation of her privacy.”

“You and I both know Vivienne forfeited her right to privacy a long time ago.”

“Sorry,” said Thomas, loud enough to draw the focus back to him. “I, uh, don’t know that I’m comfortable spying on someone without their knowledge.”

Philip shot Amelia a brief but scathing now-look-what-you’ve- done glance. By the time his focus shifted back to Thomas, there was a placative smile in place of his scowl. “Let me reassure you, son, Vivienne is well aware that whoever works with her will be reporting back to me. She’s lived under my roof all her life. She knows how I run my house. I expect a certain kind of order. Your presence here will merely help to reinforce that order.”

“Oh,” said Thomas, who didn’t feel reassured by that at all.

For the briefest of instants, he imagined himself politely declining the offer. And then he imagined driving back home to Worcester—to the sparse fridge and the counter stacked with bills—and the daydream flagged and died.

His mother was a few missed payments away from foreclosure. His scholarship money was gone. If he wanted a future— any kind of future—there was nothing else for him to do but take this job.

“I don’t like it,” said Amelia after a terse silence. “Neither will Vivienne.”

“Vivienne will survive,” said Philip evenly. “And so will you.”

“And what about him ?”

“ What about him?” demanded Philip.

“What if things get out of hand? What if she—” She caught herself, her eyes darting nervously to Thomas. “What if a situation escalates when they’re out? He’s only a boy. What’s he meant to do?”

Thomas had been wondering the same. While it was true that his height gave him a formidable presence—he’d inherited his six-foot-three frame and his Irish temper from his father—size didn’t make someone a defender. He wasn’t sure what kind of unsavory characters Vivienne Farrow was spending time with, but he could imagine.

Across from him, Philip leaned forward and assessed Thomas with a sudden keenness that left him cold.

“I’ve done my research, too,” he said. “You’re in a fraternity, aren’t you?”

Thomas didn’t like to talk about it. His short-lived college experience. The school’s loss of accreditation. The way he couldn’t afford to go back once the scholarship money dried up. He certainly hadn’t planned to mention it at a job interview . In any case, his failed fall semester felt like little more than a fever dream. His initiation into the school’s exclusive brotherhood, even more so.

“I was,” he said carefully. “I’m not anymore.”

“Ah.” Philip waved him off. “Once you’re part of something like that, you’re always a part. I was a Phi Epsilon Nu man myself. Graduated back in ’91, but I still meet up with a few members of my alma mater once or twice a year. That’s the beautiful thing about brotherhood—I can call on any one of them, for any reason, and they’d be there, no questions asked. That kind of loyalty runs bone-deep. It can’t be bought. You understand what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, who was beginning to.

“There’s a bit of secrecy involved,” Philip mused, “when you’re in a society like that, wouldn’t you agree?”

Thomas pictured a huddled mess of freshmen and a wall of names, the still-wet ink gleaming in the firelight. “I would.”

“And you’d never betray the trust of your brotherhood, would you?”

“I wouldn’t, sir.”

“That’s right. Nor would I, mine.” Philip regarded him for a long moment. “I think we understand each other quite well, you and I. Let’s make this simple, shall we?”

Reaching into his inner pocket, he pried loose a checkbook and a luxury pen. After filling out a check, he tore it loose and handed it to Thomas. A glance down at the amount stopped his heart cold. Any thoughts of walking away evaporated at once.

It was more money than Thomas had ever seen in his life.

“Consider that the biweekly sum I’m prepared to pay,” said Philip. “For your time, as well as for your confidentiality.”

“This is—ah—well, it’s, uh—”

He didn’t know what to say. Philip did. “It’s just enough, I’d imagine. Enough to cover the cost of those bills piling up at home. Enough to get your mother started on the clinical trial she’s been wait-listed for these past five years. Enough to pay for a class or two, should you choose to continue pursuing a higher education.”

Thomas glanced up, startled to hear his secrets so easily spilled. There was no getting around it—Philip Farrow had him dead to rights. He needed this money, and both of them knew it.

At his surprise, Philip smiled. “Like I said, I did my research, too. Now, do you have any questions?”

He had at least a dozen. But he was holding on to a check large enough to alter the course of his life, and so he asked only one.

“When do I start?”

From outside came the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle revving up the drive.

Philip stuck out his hand to shake. “You already have.”

“She’s back,” Amelia whispered as the front door swung open with a slam.

Philip rose to his feet and Thomas did, too, grateful for the opportunity to set down his glass unnoticed. Carefully, he folded the check and tucked it into his pocket. It felt like he was carrying a brick of solid gold.

Outside, in the foyer, a pair of heels bit into the marble in a steady click , click , click .

“Vivi,” called Amelia. “Vivi, darling, we’re here in the sitting room.”

A wide, woven hat slid into frame. Beneath it stood a petite girl in a pale pink dress. Her eyes were hidden behind a dark pair of sunglasses and her platform heels gave the impression of her being at least half a foot taller than she actually was. Her hair was a blunt slash of black, her mouth a dark, delicate heart. It deepened into a scowl at the sight of her parents huddled in wait.

“There you are,” boomed Philip. “Come in. I’d like you to meet Thomas Walsh.”

Vivienne peered out at Thomas over the frame of her glasses. Everything about her was saturated in palpable disdain. Distantly, the motorcycle departed, the sound fading into quiet.

“Who were you out with?” Amelia’s cursory tone was unconvincing. “Just now?”

F-r-a-n-k-i-e , spelled Vivienne. She was still staring at Thomas, somehow managing to look down her nose at him despite being nearly an entire foot shorter. The slight wrinkle in her lip made him feel like a bug she’d found crushed beneath the heel of her shoe.

“You know how I feel about you riding on the back of that bike of hers,” fretted Amelia. “I hope you at least had the good sense to wear a helmet.”

Vivienne continued to stare without answering her mother. Thomas weathered her gaze and did his best to look nonthreatening.

Inside, he was a snarl of panic. He should have asked more questions. As it stood, he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. Was he meant to say something? Sign something? Introduce himself? He was positive he wasn’t meant to stand there and gape—like some sad mime trapped in an invisible box. He settled on a close-lipped smile.

Vivienne didn’t return it.

“Mr. Walsh is here from Worcester,” Philip said, just a touch too loudly. “He’ll be filling in as your new interpreter.”

Only the slight arch of a brow indicated Vivienne had heard her father at all.

“He’s fluent,” her mother hurried to add. “It could be nice to have someone on hand to interpret when the situation calls for it. Don’t you think, darling?”

Vivienne’s only response was to tug off her shades and toss them onto the nearby hall tree. They landed with a clatter that sent her mother at least half a foot into the air. Thomas was met with a gaze the precise color of burnt amber.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss Farrow,” he said, because he felt he ought to say something . In any case, it seemed like the exact wrong decision.

I’m a little old for a babysitter , Vivienne signed. Her syntax mimicked spoken English, and not ASL at all. Thomas wondered if she’d taught herself, rather than being taught—if she’d cobbled together a language from scraps.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he assured her. “I’m here to—”

Handle me , she finished, cutting him off. Don’t lie. Her palm carved a flat, accusatory line across her chin.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”

She angled her chin to the side, examining him anew. She’d clearly expected him to double down. Her surprise vanished just as soon as it appeared, leaving her with that same inscrutable expression.

You look too young for this job. How old are you? Twenty?

“What are you saying?” Philip demanded. “What is she saying?”

“I’m eighteen,” said Thomas. He wasn’t sure which of them he was meant to defer to—the Farrow who was his client or the Farrow who signed his paycheck.

Out in the foyer, Vivienne’s mouth stretched into a wide, pretty smile. The sight of it pierced him like an arrow.

“I’m, uh—” He cleared his throat into his fist. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

You’re just a baby.

Amelia Farrow blanched. “Darling, let’s not forget our manners.”

Philip’s complexion had deepened several shades of red. “Mr. Walsh,” he said curtly, “is uniquely qualified to deal with your situation .”

Unique , Vivienne signed, with a tug at her index finger. What’s so unique about him?

The red in Philip’s face deepened to purple. “You know how I feel about you signing in front of me. If you insist on not speaking, you can at least jot it down on a notepad.”

Vivienne ignored him, rounding on Thomas. Did P-h-i-l-i-p give you “the talk”? Did he do his “keep it in the family” speech? Did he tell you about his fraternity?

“He might have mentioned it,” admitted Thomas.

She circled her fists, thumbs and pinkies extended. Typical.

“Vivi, please ,” said Amelia. “That is quite enough.”

Vivienne tugged her hat loose and tossed it onto the hall tree alongside her sunglasses. I had a handler before you , she signed. You should know that. You’re not the first. The first is rotting at the bottom of the S-o-u-n-d.

“Vivienne!”

She ignored her mother, too. Tell him you’re not taking the job.

“And why should I do that?” Thomas asked, though he had the terrible sense that he was poking a bear.

Vivienne’s fingers moved furtively, as though she was letting him in on a secret. There were, he noticed, thin crescents of brown packed beneath the pink shellac of her manicure. The rest of her was pristine and pretty and polished, but her nails—her nails were packed with dirt.

Like she’d been out digging in the earth.

Where to start , she signed. One, because I don’t want you to. Two, because I don’t like the thought of you living in my house, sniffing around my things.

“Oh,” said Thomas. He was surprised to find his pride wounded. “Is that all?”

Hardly. Her thumb popped loose from her fist. Her smile was deceptively sweet. Three—because if you don’t turn down the job, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.