The maid, Mary, didn't lead her up the grand staircase. Instead, she turned left, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen and the service exits.
Clarisa stopped.
"My room is on the second floor," she said. "The blue room."
Mary stopped, her shoulders hunched. She didn't turn around. "The... the Mistress said the second floor is being renovated. Fumes. Paint."
Clarisa looked up at the second-floor landing. It was silent. There were no drop cloths. No smell of paint. Just the heavy silence of exclusion.
"I see," Clarisa said. "I'm not allowed in the main house."
Mary didn't answer. She opened the back door, leading Clarisa out into the rain again. They walked along a stone path to the "Lotus Lodge."
It was a glorified shed. It used to be the gardener's quarters before they outsourced the landscaping. It was damp, isolated, and far away from the family.
Mary opened the door. The air inside smelled of mildew and stale dust.
"Here you go, Miss," Mary whispered, then fled as if Clarisa were contagious.
Clarisa stepped inside.
There was someone else in the room.
A young woman sat on the edge of the small, lumpy bed. She wore thick glasses and a severe grey suit. She stood up immediately.
"Miss Dillon," the woman said. "I'm Bethel. Brady assigned me as your... assistant."
Clarisa looked at her. Assistant. No. Jailer.
"You mean my babysitter," Clarisa corrected.
Bethel adjusted her glasses nervously. "I'm here to help you adjust. And to keep your schedule."
Clarisa walked past her. She placed her plastic bag on the nightstand.
Bethel reached out. "I can unpack that for you."
Clarisa spun around. Her movement was so fast, so aggressive, that Bethel stumbled back. Clarisa's eyes were blazing.
"Do not touch my things," Clarisa said. Her voice was low, dangerous. "If you touch this bag, I will break your fingers."
Bethel swallowed hard. She nodded.
Clarisa grabbed the small bundle of clothes she had and marched into the bathroom. She locked the door.
She turned on the faucet in the sink, full blast. Then the shower. The noise filled the small tiled room.
Clarisa reached into her notebook. With practiced fingers, she worked a small, sharp tool along the thick leather spine, popping it open. Tucked inside were several tiny, mismatched electronic components wrapped in plastic-scavenged resistors, a capacitor, a small induction coil. It took her less than a minute to assemble the crude, pocket-sized signal detector.
She scanned the bathroom. The mirror. The vent. The light fixture.
No bugs. Brady was arrogant; he didn't think she was smart enough to check.
Clarisa stripped off her wet clothes. They landed in a heavy pile on the floor.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
She was a skeleton draped in pale skin. Her collarbones jutted out like knives. But it was the scars that held her attention.
Her back was a map of pain. There were burn marks on her shoulder blades. Long, thin white lines on her thighs from where she had been dragged through the brush during "endurance training."
And the needle marks on her inner arm. The sedatives they forced on her when she refused to admit to an addiction she didn't have.
Clarisa stared at her reflection. She didn't cry. She didn't feel sorry for the girl in the mirror. She felt a cold, hard rage solidifying in her gut.
"Miss?" Bethel's voice came through the door. "Do you need help washing your back?"
Clarisa sneered. She wants to check for fresh tracks. She wants to see the damage.
"Get away from the door," Clarisa yelled over the running water. "I said get away!"
She heard Bethel's footsteps retreat.
Clarisa stepped into the shower. The water was lukewarm, but it felt like heaven compared to the ice-cold hoses at the camp. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw. She washed away the mud, the smell of the limo, the smell of the camp.
She couldn't wash away the memories.
She dried off and put on a robe she found hanging on the hook. It was rough cotton, scratchy. She tied the belt tight, covering every inch of skin.
When she came out, Bethel was typing on her phone.
Clarisa walked to the bed and sat down. She watched Bethel.
Enemy Number One, she thought. Or... potential asset.
She would figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, she just had to survive the silence.
