The house on Maple Street looked exactly like the photos Maya had sent me two stories of pale brick and dark shutters, a wide front porch with a swing that didn’t look like it got used much, and a neat lawn that suggested someone cared about appearances even if they didn’t spend a lot of time outside. I paid the driver, pulled my two suitcases onto the sidewalk, and stood there for a moment with the summer heat pressing against the back of my neck.

Three months. That was the deal. Maya had a spare room, I needed a place to land while I finished job applications and waited for...