The sky cracked open.
There was no preamble, no gentle drizzle. Lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the desolate highway in a strobe of harsh white light. Thunder followed a second later, shaking the ground beneath Clarisa's thin soles.
Then the water came.
It fell in sheets, heavy and cold. Within seconds, Clarisa's grey hoodie was soaked through, clinging to her skeletal frame like a second skin. The cold wasn't just on the surface; it seeped into her bones, waking up every old injury she had collected over the last three years.
Her bruised ribs throbbed. Her left shoulder ached.
She started walking. She kept her head down, clutching the plastic bag against her stomach to keep the notebook dry. That notebook was the only proof she had that she wasn't insane.
A semi-truck roared past, spraying a wave of brown sludge over her legs. Clarisa flinched, stepping sideways onto the soft shoulder of the road.
The mud was slicker than ice.
Her left foot slid. It went down into a drainage ditch hidden by the overgrown grass.
Snap.
The sound was sickeningly loud, even over the rain.
Clarisa collapsed into the mud. She didn't scream. Screaming in the camp attracted the guards, and the guards brought pain. Instead, she bit her lip until she tasted copper. Her breath hitched in short, ragged gasps.
She looked down. Her ankle was already swelling, pushing against the fabric of her cheap sneaker.
"Get up," she commanded herself. Her voice was lost in the wind. "Get up, 402."
She tried to put weight on it. White spots danced in her vision. She fell back down, the cold mud seeping into her pants.
Twin beams of light cut through the darkness behind her. Xenon headlights. Bright. Expensive.
The powerful beams swept across the road, catching her face for a single, stark moment as she looked up. Let it be a stranger, she prayed. Don't let it be Brady coming back to laugh.
The car slowed. The engine purr was low, powerful. It wasn't the SUV.
She squinted through the rain. It was a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom. She knew that car. She knew the license plate: AM-I.
Her heart hammered against her bruised ribs.
Ambrose.
The rear window rolled down halfway. A face appeared. It was sharp, angular, carved from marble and just as cold. Ambrose Montgomery looked out at the shivering heap of rags on the side of the road.
Clarisa wiped mud from her cheek, trying to hide. She felt small. She felt dirty.
"Get in," Ambrose said. His voice carried effortlessly over the storm. It wasn't an offer; it was an order.
Clarisa shook her head. She wouldn't take his charity. Not after he stood by and watched them take her away three years ago.
Ambrose frowned. He looked annoyed, like she was a scheduling error in his day. "Don't make me send security out there to drag you. You know I will."
He would. Ambrose never made empty threats. He was a defense contractor; he dealt in absolutes.
Clarisa weighed her options. Hypothermia or humiliation.
She chose survival.
She pushed herself up, balancing on her good leg. She hopped toward the car, gritting her teeth against the nausea rising in her throat.
The driver was already out, holding a large black umbrella. He reached for her arm.
Clarisa recoiled. She jerked her body away from his hand, nearly falling in the process. "Don't touch me," she hissed.
The driver froze.
She grabbed the door handle herself and pulled herself into the backseat.
The warmth hit her like a physical blow. It was suffocating. She sat on the edge of the cream-colored leather seat, trying to keep her muddy clothes from touching anything. Water dripped from her hair onto the plush carpet.
She pressed herself against the door, as far away from Ambrose as possible.
Ambrose didn't move. He sat perfectly still, his legs crossed, a tablet on his lap. He looked at her ankle. It was throbbing, the swelling visible even through the shoe.
His gray eyes moved up to her face. He looked at the hollows of her cheeks, the dark circles under her eyes.
"Brady?" he asked. One word. No emotion.
Clarisa stared out the window at the blurring rain. She didn't answer. She just held her plastic bag tighter.
