The staircase curved like a DNA helix. Eleanor held Estelle's hand as they ascended.

Buster's claws clicked on the hardwood: tick-tick-tick. Shadow flowed up the banister like liquid ink.

"We prepared the East Wing for you," Eleanor said nervously. "I hope you like it. If not, we can burn it down and start over."

She wasn't joking.

They stopped in front of double white doors. Eleanor pushed them open.

Estelle stopped breathing.

The room was bigger than the entire trailer park lot. The walls were a soft, creamy pink. The ceiling was painted with clouds and cherubs. A four-poster bed sat in the center, draped in silk that looked like spun sugar.

But it was the smell that hit her. Fresh lavender. New fabric. No mold. No stale smoke.

"Is this... for everyone?" Estelle asked.

"No," Eleanor said, kneeling to look her in the eye. "Just for you."

Estelle walked in. Her feet sank into the carpet. It was so soft it felt unstable.

Buster didn't hesitate. He leaped onto the bed. He circled three times on the silk duvet and collapsed with a grunt of pure satisfaction.

"No! Buster!" Estelle lunged forward. "Get down! You'll ruin it!"

"Let him stay," Eleanor said quickly. "The sheets are replaceable. His comfort isn't."

She walked to a wall panel and pressed a button.

A section of the wall slid back.

Estelle's jaw dropped. It was a walk-in closet. But it wasn't just clothes.

It was a museum of a lost childhood.

On the left, tiny dresses for a three-year-old. Then slightly larger ones for a four-year-old. Five. Six. Seven.

Rows and rows of clothes, tags still on, organizing the years Estelle had been gone. Shoes that had never touched the ground. Coats that had never felt the cold.

Eleanor walked over and touched a red velvet dress in the size-five section.

"I bought this for Christmas that year," she whispered. "I thought... maybe you'd be home by morning."

Estelle looked at the empty sleeves. She felt a phantom weight in her chest. Her mother hadn't forgotten. Her mother had been waiting, buying ghosts, year after year.

"I'm here now," Estelle said. It was the first time she had comforted someone else.

Eleanor sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Yes. You are. Now, let's get you clean."

The bathroom was made of white marble. The tub was a Jacuzzi.

Eleanor turned on the gold taps. Water rushed out, steaming and hot. She poured in rose oil. The scent filled the room.

"I can do it," Estelle said quickly, clutching the hem of her dirty shirt. She didn't want her mother to see the bruises. The cigarette burns on her shoulder. The map of pain written on her skin.

Eleanor froze. She saw the hesitation. She understood.

"Okay," Eleanor said, forcing a smile. "I'll be right outside the door. I won't leave. I promise."

She stepped out, closing the door until it was just a crack.

Estelle peeled off the filthy clothes. They hit the floor with a wet smack.

She stepped into the water.

It burned, then soothed. The heat seeped into her bones, dissolving the tension. She watched the water turn gray, then brown, as the dirt of the last three years floated away.

She scrubbed until her skin was pink. She washed her hair three times.

When she finally stood up, wrapped in a towel that felt like a cloud, she looked in the mirror.

The girl staring back was still thin. Still scarred. But the dirt was gone. And under the grime, she was... pretty.

She looked like the woman in the painting.

Estelle walked out of the bathroom wearing a silk nightgown that was two sizes too big. It hung off her bony shoulders.

Eleanor was waiting with a hair dryer.

"Sit," she said softly, patting the vanity stool.

The warm air blew through Estelle's wet hair. Eleanor's fingers were gentle, detangling the knots without pulling. It was a rhythmic, hypnotic sensation.

On the vanity table, there was a row of silver-framed photos.

"Let me introduce you to the rest of the circus," Eleanor said, picking up the first frame.

It was a man in a dark suit, standing in a glass office high above a city. He wasn't smiling. He looked intense, sharp, dangerous.

"This is Guilford," Eleanor said. "Your oldest brother. He runs the company in New York. He looks scary, I know. People call him a shark."

Estelle shivered. "Is he mean?"

"To the world? Yes. Brutal," Eleanor said, placing the photo back. "But he's on a helicopter right now, flying through a storm to get to you. For you, he'll be a teddy bear. A very large, angry teddy bear."

She pointed to another photo. A boy with bleached hair leaning against a race car, grinning like a maniac.

"That's Bo. Number four. He drives fast cars and breaks things. He'll be here tomorrow."

Estelle memorized their faces. The Shark and the Racer.

Eleanor finished drying her hair. The room went quiet. The clock ticked.

"Do I... do I have to sleep alone?" Estelle asked. Her voice was barely audible.

The bed looked like an ocean. The shadows in the corners looked deep.

Eleanor's face softened into pure love. "Not if you don't want to."

"Can you stay?"

"I would stay for a hundred years."

They climbed into the massive bed. Buster was already snoring in the middle, taking up the most space. Eleanor lay on one side, Estelle on the other, the dog acting as a warm, furry barrier between them.

Eleanor reached over and turned off the lamp. Only a nightlight remained, casting a warm glow.

"Mom?" Estelle whispered into the dark.

"Yes, baby?"

"How did I get lost?"

The air in the room changed. Eleanor's body went rigid. Estelle couldn't see her face, but she could feel the tension radiating off her.

"It was... an accident," Eleanor said. Her voice sounded tight, brittle. "A nanny made a mistake. She looked away for a second."

"Oh," Estelle said. She closed her eyes.

Beside her, Eleanor stared into the darkness, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her hand gripped the silk sheet until her knuckles turned white.

It wasn't an accident. It was a betrayal. It was a kidnapping orchestrated from the inside. And Eleanor knew that the person who did it was still out there.

She began to hum. A low, mournful tune. A lullaby.

Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly...

Estelle's brain latched onto the melody. A memory, deep in her amygdala, unlocked. She remembered this song. She remembered the smell of vanilla.

She fell asleep knowing, for the first time in three years, that she was exactly where she belonged.

The dream started the way it always did.

The smell of stale beer. The darkness of the closet.

Then, the sound. The distinct, terrifying snap of leather being pulled through belt loops.

Mrs. Miller was looming over her. She was ten feet tall. Her belt was a snake, writhing in her hand.

"Ungrateful brat," the dream-Miller hissed. "You ate the extra slice of bread. You stole it."

"I didn't!" Estelle tried to scream, but her mouth was full of cotton.

The arm raised. The belt whistled through the air.

Crack.

Pain exploded in Estelle's mind. Not a memory of pain-real, visceral pain.

"NO!"

Estelle woke up screaming.

It wasn't a normal scream. It was a guttural, animalistic shriek of pure terror. She scrambled backward, crab-walking across the mattress, trying to get away from the belt.

"Don't hit me! I'll be good! I promise I'll be good!"

She hit the headboard with a thud. She curled into a ball, covering her head with her arms.

"Estelle! Elara! Wake up!"

Eleanor was reaching for her.

"No! Get away!" Estelle kicked out blindly.

Buster was barking, a deep, booming sound that shook the walls. He was spinning in circles, looking for the threat, ready to kill anything that moved.

The bedroom door burst open.

Arthur stood there. He was wearing silk pajamas, but in his hand was a Glock 19. He held it with professional ease, scanning the room for an intruder.

He saw his daughter curled in a ball, screaming for mercy from a ghost.

He lowered the gun. His face broke.

He dropped the weapon on the carpet and vaulted onto the bed.

"I've got her," Arthur said to Eleanor.

He grabbed Estelle. She fought him. She scratched at his arms, her nails leaving red welts on his skin. He didn't flinch. He just pulled her tighter, wrapping his massive arms around her so she couldn't hurt herself.

"It's Daddy," he roared over her screams. "It's Daddy. You're in the big house. The bad lady is gone. Look at me!"

Estelle gasped, her eyes flying open.

She saw the chandelier. She saw the pink walls. She saw Arthur's face, wet with tears, inches from hers.

The hallucination faded. The belt wasn't there.

She collapsed against him, her body shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

"I thought... I thought I was back," she sobbed into his chest.

"You are never going back," Arthur growled. He looked over her head at Eleanor. His eyes were hard, cold flint. "Never."

Buster stopped barking. He crawled over and licked the tears off Estelle's face.

Arthur held them both as the first hint of gray light began to soften the edges of the window frame. He rocked her back and forth.

When Estelle finally drifted back into an exhausted sleep, clutching his lapel, Arthur carefully extricated himself.

He picked up his phone. He walked to the window.

He dialed a number. It was 5:30 AM, but the person on the other end answered on the first ring.

"Burn it down," Arthur said.

"Sir?"

" The trailer park. Buy the land. Evict everyone. Then bulldoze it. I want it to be a parking lot by noon."

He hung up. He looked at his daughter's sleeping face, peaceful but scarred.

"Scorched earth," he whispered.