The journey to her room was a slow, painful limp, aided by the reluctant arm of the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. Calista's room was in the attic, a space the Sterlings considered suitable for a charity case. It was small, with a single sloped window and furniture that was a decade out of style. It stood in stark contrast to Isabelle's sprawling suite two floors below, a palace of pink and white.
She eased herself onto the edge of her bed, her ankle throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Her phone, the one she'd used to make the call, buzzed on the nightstand. A new message.
It was from Professor Beaumont.
"Calista, I don't know what is happening, but I trust your talent implicitly. I will hold your spot. One month. Here is the contact information for Damien Holden. He is a former student of mine, a good man. If you find yourself in any kind of trouble, call him. He will help you."
A flicker of warmth, the first she'd felt since this nightmare began, moved through her chest. She stared at the name-Damien Holden. It was unfamiliar. A variable from a life she had never lived. She committed it to memory.
She was typing a reply to the professor when her door was thrown open with such force that it slammed against the wall.
Gavin Sterling stood there, still dressed in his racing gear, his face flushed with anger. He was her second brother, a man who lived life at two hundred miles per hour, both on the track and off. He was Isabelle's most fervent champion and Calista's most vocal tormentor.
"You ungrateful parasite!" he snarled, storming into the room. He jabbed a finger at her face. "You hurt Isabelle, and you still have the nerve to make demands of Ethan?"
Calista looked at him, her expression flat. Arguing with Gavin was like arguing with a thunderstorm. Pointless and exhausting.
Her silence only enraged him further. "What's with that look? You think you're better than us? Without the Sterling name, you're nothing! You'd be on the street!"
Isabelle appeared in the doorway behind him, a vision of worried innocence. She placed a delicate hand on Gavin's arm. "Gavin, don't. Her ankle is hurt."
"Don't you dare defend her!" Gavin shook off her hand, his voice booming in the small room. "You're too good, Izzy. That's your problem. You let her walk all over you!"
His furious gaze swept the room and landed on the phone in Calista's hand. In two quick strides, he snatched it from her. The screen was still lit, displaying Professor Beaumont's message.
Gavin let out a harsh, ugly laugh. "What's this? Calling for backup? Think you're going to make a comeback in a month? In your dreams!"
A switch flipped inside Calista. An icy calm washed over her. "Give me back my phone."
"You want it back?" Gavin's smile was cruel. "Here."
He threw the phone to the ground. The screen spiderwebbed with a sickening crunch.
"You can have it back when you learn how to offer a real apology," he spat. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Isabelle shot Calista a look-a fleeting glance of pity that was quickly overshadowed by pure, unadulterated pleasure.
BANG.
The door slammed shut.
Calista stared at it for a second before the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the wood.
A cold dread trickled down her spine. She scrambled off the bed, ignoring the pain in her ankle, and hobbled to the door. She twisted the knob. It didn't budge. It was locked.
"Gavin! Open the door!" she yelled, pounding her fist against the solid oak.
She could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall, accompanied by Isabelle's faint, theatrical protests. "Brother, maybe this is too much..."
Calista leaned her forehead against the cool wood, her breath coming in ragged pants. The walls of the small room suddenly felt like they were closing in.
Then, with a soft click, the single lamp on her nightstand went out. The room was plunged into absolute darkness.
He'd cut the power.
The blackness was instantaneous and total. It pressed in on her from all sides, thick and suffocating. It wasn't just the absence of light; it was the presence of a memory. The memory of another locked room, another darkness. The memory of days turning into weeks in the disciplinary center, locked in solitary confinement.
Her breath hitched. Her lungs seized. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her temples. The air grew thick, unbreathable. She slid down the door, her back scraping against the wood, until she was huddled in a heap on the floor.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them tight to her chest, trying to make herself smaller, trying to disappear. But there was no escaping the panic. It was a living thing, inside her, clawing its way up her throat.
