The door opened, Julian stepped in, his gaze sweeping over the room. He noted the blood on the sheets, the smell of sex and sweat. His expression didn't change.
Culver was standing by the window now, wrapped in a black robe, looking out at the dark grounds.
"Clean this up," Culver said without turning around. "Take her to the Guest Cottage."
Julian paused. "Sir? The protocol is to return the asset to the facility."
"She's a mute," Culver said. "And she's... durable. Keep her."
Julian signaled to the guards in the hallway.
They entered and wrapped Arla in a wool blanket and carried her out.
They shoved her into the back of a golf cart, took her to a small stone house covered in ivy.
Julian followed, tossing a bundle of fabric onto the sofa.
"Maid's uniform," he said. "There are no personal items here, food will be delivered."
He stood by the door, his hand on the knob.
"Rule one: You do not leave this building. Rule two: You do not attempt to contact the outside world. Rule three: You are available when he calls."
Julian stepped out. The heavy oak door slammed.
Arla waited. She counted to sixty, then, she moved.
She dropped the blanket and stood up, the trembling in her legs was gone. She walked to the center of the living room and looked up.
Corner of the ceiling: a small red light. Camera.
Bedroom: another red light. Camera.
She walked into the bathroom, checked the corners. Nothing, the only blind spot.
She turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run. She splashed her face, scrubbing away the sweat and the smell of him.
A memory flashed-a man's voice, low and rough. Always leave yourself a back door, Arla.
Arla. That was her name, she held onto it.
She began to explore the kitchenette.
The drawers were empty of sharp objects, no knives, only round-tipped butter spreaders.
She opened the junk drawer.
There.
A single paperclip, wedged in the corner.
She palmed it instantly, she brought her hand to her mouth, pretending to cough, and slipped the metal clip under her tongue.
In the main house study, Culver sat in front of a bank of monitors.
"Dr. White says she was admitted a year ago," Julian said, reading from a tablet. "Car accident, traumatic brain injury."
Culver zoomed in on the camera feed from the cottage. Arla was curled up on the sofa, looking small and harmless.
"A car accident doesn't leave whip marks," Culver said. "Dig deeper, I want to know where she came from."
On the screen, Arla shifted. Underneath the cushion, unseen by the camera, her fingernail was scratching a map into the fabric of the sofa base-the layout of the estate she had memorized from the cart ride.
Culver pressed the intercom button.
"Sleep well, little mute," his voice echoed in the cottage.
Arla looked up at the camera, she gave a weak, trembling smile. Under her tongue, the paperclip pressed sharp against the soft tissue.
