Nine days after returning to Jersey, without telling Lindsay, Hope took the train back to Long Island, renting a backyard Winnebago off Craigslist for $70 a night so she could determine if the Hamptons really might be the right place for her to “start over.” She later explained that, the way she figured, the area was bustling enough to provide the anonymity she yearned for, without the big-city chaos that—to her knowledge, at least—she had never experienced. Due to its popularity as a vacation spot, it drew plenty of short-timers and newcomers, so she’d blend in from the outset. And in her words, it was “the right amount of shady.” Rich people who bought beach houses under LLCs, perhaps tossing some unreported cash around in the wash along the way, would have no qualms about paying her for work under the table if it meant they didn’t have to cover the payroll taxes. She was confident she could find a landlord and an employer who were willing to deal in cash, at least for the right kind of person.

Hope’s gut instincts must have been right, because when she called Lindsay at the end of her trip, she had found both a house and a job. The owner of Hope’s tiny cottage was an older woman who needed to go to Indiana for six months to take care of her even older mother. She wanted someone responsible to cover the costs of keeping the house running and to watch over the place in her absence. Lindsay was mortified when Hope confessed that she’d “borrowed a few details” from Miriam’s biography to explain her need to live “off the grid.” Hope justified it by pointing out that, unfortunately, Miriam’s harrowing move to Hopewell to flee an abusive boyfriend wasn’t especially unique. It turned out Miriam hadn’t minded one bit, assuring Hope that if what she went through could help another woman in even a tiny way, she was all for it. Once Lindsay and Miriam provided glowing personal references, the owner was willing to accept cash as rent. Done.

Lindsay was more concerned about Hope’s job. She had started with the big property management companies and realtors, thinking they would need seasonal help to turn over the short-term rentals. She got a few nibbles, but even with her Miriam-inspired cover story, they all balked at the idea of paying her in cash. But then she’d found an “independent” realtor named Evan Hunter. Lindsay had googled him, of course. He looked slick. Like, literally slick. Dewy skin. Lips that looked freshly licked. Blond hair swept back with plenty of product. At best, he’d pawn all his work off on Hope without cutting her in on his lucrative commissions, knowing she had few options. Or worse, he’d try to use his power over her in other ways. He wouldn’t be the first to try to take advantage.