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.

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.

5:50 PM.

Arla went to the stove, turned the gas dial. A hiss filled the small kitchen,but she didn't light it.

She took a thick towel, soaked it in water, and draped it over the burners, creating a pocket for the gas to accumulate.

She retreated to the bathroom, counting down the seconds.

5:59 PM. She heard footsteps on the gravel path.

Arla struck a match, she walked to the kitchen doorway.

The lock clicked, the door handle turned.

As the maid pushed the door open, Arla flicked the match toward the stove.

BOOM.

The pocket of gas ignited. It wasn't a massive explosion, but the force blew the wet towel across the room and set the curtains ablaze instantly.

The maid screamed, dropping the tray. She stumbled back, shielding her face.

Arla didn't hesitate, she lowered her shoulder and rammed into the woman, knocking her into the bushes.

She sprinted.

Before she cleared the doorway, she instinctively smeared a handful of soot from the charred frame across her cheeks and forehead, obscuring her features. The cool grass felt wet under her bare feet. She ran toward the tree line, away from the lights of the party.

Sirens began to wail, real ones this time.

In the main house, the music stopped.

Culver was on the terrace, a glass of champagne in his hand. He heard the boom, he saw the orange glow rising from the guest cottage.

"Sir!" The head of security spoke into his earpiece. "Target is running. North quadrant."

Culver slammed his glass down on a table. "Do not shoot," he snarled. "Bring her back, whole."

Arla's lungs were burning. She could hear the dogs barking.

She cleared a hedge, landing hard on her knees. Ahead of her lay the ornamental pond, it was her only barrier against the dogs.

She waded in, something hit her from behind.The Doberman clamped its jaws onto the hem of her robe, dragging her back.

Arla flailed, her hand closed around a smooth river stone. She swung it backward, smashing it into the dog's snout.

The dog yelped and let go.

But it was too late. Beams of light converged on her, four guards surrounded the pond, weapons drawn.

"Stay down!"

Arla stood in the waist-deep water, shivering violently. She looked like a drowned rat.

The crowd of guests had gathered on the lawn, whispering, pointing. Eleonore Joyce stood at the front, a smirk playing on her red lips as she glanced at the filthy, soot-streaked creature being dragged from the water. Just another piece of trash Culver was playing with. She didn't give its face a second thought.

Culver pushed through the line of guards. He had taken off his tuxedo jacket, his white shirt was stark against the darkness.

He waded into the water, didn't care about his Italian leather shoes.

He stopped a foot away from her, his face was a mask of fury.

"You would rather burn to death?" he asked softly.

Arla lifted her chin, she was shaking, but she looked him in the eye.

Culver laughed, it was a cold, sharp sound. He grabbed a handful of her wet hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at the smoldering cottage.

"I tried to be nice," he whispered.

He dragged her out of the water, didn't offer her his coat.

"The wine cellar," Culver ordered. "No food. No water. Not until I say so."

Two guards hauled her up.

Arla caught Eleonore's eye. The woman laughed, sipping her wine. "Good help is so hard to find these days."

They dragged Arla away into the darkness.