Carole opened the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity. Under a stack of towels, she found a small, pink eyebrow razor. She slipped it into the sleeve of her sweater. It was small, but it was metal.
She walked out of the bathroom and sat by the window, staring blankly at the lawn. She needed the guards to think she had given up.
The door opened. Hollis walked in. He wore a dark grey sweater and held a medical file.
"Get up," Hollis said. "We are going to the clinic for your ankle."
Carole's heart jumped. Leaving the estate meant a chance to run. She stood up quietly and followed him out the door.
They sat in the back of the Maybach. K. Sterling drove them toward Manhattan.
Carole stared out the window, watching the traffic lights and the crowds of people. She calculated how fast she could run if she opened the door at a red light.
Hollis reached across the seat. He grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. His grip was tight enough to bruise.
"Do not even think about it," Hollis said, staring straight ahead.
Carole felt the heat of his palm. She hated it, but she kept her hand still.
The car pulled up to a high-end private clinic. Hollis led her inside.
"I need to use the restroom," Carole said, pulling her hand away.
Hollis nodded to a guard. The guard followed her down the hall. Carole walked slowly, looking for a back exit. The hallway was packed with Wall security. There was no way out.
She turned around to walk back to the lobby.
As she passed the elevator bank, she stopped dead in her tracks.
A man sat in a wheelchair, facing the elevator doors. He wore a dark charcoal cashmere coat. His shoulders were thin, but the posture was exactly the same.
Carole stopped breathing. The scent of a very specific, rare cigar hit her nose.
Jose Lynn.
Her first love. The boy who died in the fire five years ago.
Carole lunged forward. "Jose Lynn! Is that you?"
The guard grabbed her arm and pulled her back. The elevator doors slid open. The man's assistant pushed the wheelchair inside.
For one second, the man turned his head. Carole saw the sharp line of his jaw and the cold, empty look in his eye.
The doors closed.
Carole stood frozen. Her chest heaved. Tears flooded her eyes. It couldn't be him. He was dead.
Hollis walked around the corner. He saw Carole shaking, her face pale, staring at the elevator.
Just then, a sharp, agonizing physical constriction seized his chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath. It felt as if ice water had been poured directly into his lungs-a severe, physiological stress response triggered by her sudden panic attack, bleeding perfectly into his nervous system.
Hollis grabbed her shoulders. "What are you looking at?"
Carole shook her head wildly. "Nothing. It was a ghost."
Hollis looked at the elevator numbers going up. His jaw clenched tight. He hated the look in her eyes. He hated that someone else made her feel this much pain.
He dragged her into the doctor's office.
The doctor checked her ankle, but Carole didn't feel a thing. Her mind was stuck on the man in the wheelchair.
Hollis paced the room. He felt her racing heartbeat. He slammed his hand on the desk.
He pulled out a new contract. "Sign it. Now. The terms are better. You get your own wing of the house."
Carole looked at the paper. She thought about the man in the wheelchair. If Jose was alive, she couldn't be trapped here.
"No," Carole said softly.
Hollis grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the chair. He dragged her out of the clinic and shoved her into the car.
"If you do not sign it by tonight," Hollis yelled, his face inches from hers, "I will have your adoptive parents moved to the cell next to yours."
Carole shrank back into the leather seat. She bit her cheek until she tasted blood. The threat was real. She had to escape today.
