Morning light filtered through the iron bars disguised as decorative lattice on the windows.
At 8:00 AM, the lock turned. A maid entered, placed a tray of toast and coffee on the table, and left without a word.
Arla ate half the toast, she wrapped the other half in a napkin and hid it behind the cooling coils of the refrigerator, reserves.
She waited until the sun hit the window glass, creating a glare that might obscure the camera's view. She pulled the paperclip from her mouth, she had bent it into a pick during the night.
She worked the window latch.
Click.
The latch gave. Victory surged in her chest, she pushed the window up.
No alarm sounded.
She leaned out, but as she reached her hand past the frame, a faint red beam intersected her wrist.
Immediately, a silent alert must have triggered.
Thirty seconds later, two guards rounded the corner of the cottage, a Doberman straining on a leash between them.
Arla slammed the window shut and threw herself onto the bed, feigning sleep.
The guards shone a flashlight through the glass. "Damn squirrels," one muttered. "Sensors are too sensitive."
They left.
Arla lay still, her heart pounding. Physical escape was impossible, the perimeter was electronic.
At 2:00 PM, the door opened again. It wasn't food.
Julian walked in, followed by a man in a white coat.
The doctor opened a case and prepared a syringe. Arla recognized the vial, Depo-Provera, Birth control.
The doctor grabbed her arm, the needle pierced her skin. Arla forcing the muscle to contract violently, expelling the majority of the viscous liquid back out the moment the needle withdrew. She quickly wiped away as the doctor turned his back.
"It's for your own good," Julian said, looking away. "You don't want a Lancaster bastard."
Julian tossed a document onto the bed.
"Sign it."
It was a Non-Disclosure Agreement. It stated that she was a voluntary domestic employee and that she would never speak of her time here.
Arla looked at the paper, the document was legally worthless-signed under duress by a woman officially declared mentally incompetent, with no next of kin. But for an audience of one-Culver-her compliance was the only performance that mattered right now. She picked up the pen and signed on the paper.
"Good girl," Julian said.
Night fell, Culver didn't come.
From her window, Arla could see the main house. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, luxury cars lined the driveway, it's a gala.
She saw figures on the terrace, a woman in a shimmering backless gown was holding onto Culver's arm. Eleonore Joyce.
Arla squinted, a headache spiked behind her eyes, she knew that woman.
She watched the service entrance, the maids were bringing food in and out.
At six o'clock in the evening, the maid will open the door of her cottage to deliver dinner. The door will open for about 15 seconds.
Fifteen seconds, not enough to run.
She needed a distraction, chaos.
Her eyes landed on the gas stove in the kitchenette.
