Betty Cooper scanned the well-lit room with her eyes, not really seeing the space – only its potential. The furniture was the type that belonged in an Ethan Allen catalogue, all light whites and blues like the house was centered on a beach in a Cape Cod on Martha's Vineyard. It was inviting, comfortable. New. She ran her hands over the light gray tufted couch, the fringed throw pillows with large buttons that illuminated the heaviness of their filling. She eyed white clapboard book shelves, empty, surrounding the television save for a few silver frames. She peered closer. They weren't filled, but held the faces of the generic families that were sold in them. A few seashells. Why did people collect seashells? Was this a California thing?

"Who owns this again, did you say?" Betty asked the realtor as she stepped onto the woven rug, a heavy Native American pattern of cornflower blue and white, zig zags that disappeared under two large arm chairs. No one had ever sat in those chairs, she could see. She highly doubted a person had ever stepped into this space before her today.

"I didn't. We don't really disclose the renter," her realtor smiled at her, falsely. Her lips were tight, unwilling to budge. Betty didn't care. She didn't really need to know who owned this cottage anyway. It didn't matter. Time was the only thing that mattered.

"And they aren't….here?" she asked again, for what felt like the third time. It must have felt like it to the realtor, too, who sighed with explanation.

"They aren't. They travel the majority of the year. They decided to lease the pool house last year when they finished the remodel. They do like to use the main house from time to time, but I haven't seen them in the actual home in over six months. So it is relatively secluded. Just a lovely drive up Mulholland…"

"That's fine. It's available immediately?" Betty cut her off. She didn't care about the drive. She didn't have a car. She approached the large bay window of the sitting area that peered out over the garden surrounding the in ground pool. The large Californian 'Country Estate' loomed in the distance across the expansive yard. Country Estate, that's how the ad had worded it. Betty smirked at the thought. Estate did not begin to cover what they called a house on these acres of land. It sat like a sleeping monster, all dark windows and grand arches, its gated entry trying to falsely convey its immense size. No one lived there either, from what she could tell. No one ever had, she assumed. The gravel driveway did not have a single tire track along it. The grass was dry, untouched by rain or weather in its perfectly green and sheared state. It was as if the house on the hill sat frozen in time, just waiting for her. Waiting for someone to hide in it.

"It is. We'll need first and last month's rent, and your references of course." Betty stopped. That would be a problem.

"I could provide six month's rent if we could forego the references," she smiled warmly. "Not a lot of friends where I'm from. Or renting history," she shrugged, as if she could not explain the phenomenon. The realtor eyed her, her face frozen as she considered.

"Yes, I suppose we could make that work."

"Fantastic," Betty answered quickly. She stepped forward and extended her hand, her fingers closing around the woman's with affirmation.

"Did you want to take a look at the rest of the space? The appliances are all brand new, and there's an allowance to use the pool during certain hours when the landscapers aren't around…" the realtor wandered off towards the kitchenette. Betty was barely listening as she allowed herself to sink down in the couch – the untouched, brand new couch. It cradled her and her exhaustion was finally bubbling towards the surface, creeping into her consciousness. She opened her purse and took out the money orders from the Walmart she had stopped at in Idaho. She thumbed out six of them, all made out to cash. She placed one cool palm over her eyes and pushed, hard, allowing the burn of fatigue to seep into her hands.

"I'm alright, thank you," she called out and stood, once more. The realtor, a Kay Williams according to her business card, stepped back into the living room, an inquisitive look on her face.

"I'll just run to the car, get the paperwork then," she smiled. Betty nodded. She smiled one more time, forcing herself to see this through to the end. As she heard the crunch of Kay's heels on the gravel outside, starting the long walk across the 2.7 acres to her awaiting Malibu in the circle drive, Betty felt her barriers fall. She knew she had maybe five minutes, five full minutes to be.

Her face crumbled and she breathed, hard, out into the space where finally, finally, no one could hear her. No one could see her. She pushed a fountain of tears off of her face, her mascara surely leaving a streak. She felt her heart burst, her arms and knees shake with each wracking sob she allowed to leave her chapped lips. She was hot. She was exhausted and tired. She had only a back pack and a rolling suitcase at her feet. She had no more pictures to put in these frames than the house they came in did. She was a ghost just like this home, just like the owner of this home, just like she had hoped.

Through splashing tears and streaked eyes she took a large breath in…and smiled.