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.

The silence in the car was heavier than the storm outside. The only sound was the rhythmic thwack-hiss of the wipers and the hum of the tires on wet asphalt.

Ambrose reached into the small refrigerator console between the seats. He pulled out a bottle of Evian water.

He held it out to her.

Clarisa stared at the bottle. Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. She was dehydrated, dizzy. But taking it felt like accepting a bribe.

"Take it," Ambrose said.

She didn't move.

He sighed, a sharp exhale through his nose. He leaned over and shoved the bottle into her hand. His fingertips brushed against the back of her hand.

Clarisa flinched violently. It was a full-body jerk, as if he had burned her with a cigarette. Her hand spasmed, and the heavy glass bottle slipped from her grip, thumping onto the floor mat.

Ambrose froze. He pulled his hand back slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"You're afraid of me," he stated. It wasn't a question.

Clarisa scrambled to pick up the bottle. Her hands were shaking. "No. My hands are just... cold. Slippery."

She cracked the seal and took a sip. She wanted to chug it, but she forced herself to take small, measured swallows. Don't show hunger. Don't show thirst. Don't show need.

Ambrose watched her. He remembered a girl who used to talk a mile a minute, who used to hang off his arm and beg for his attention. This woman was a ghost.

"They let you out early," Ambrose observed, his tone neutral, probing. "What was the official reason?"

Clarisa gripped the bottle until her knuckles turned white. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the water sloshing inside. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, as if trying to clear a sound only she could hear. "Don't know," she mumbled, the words barely audible.

The word hung in the air. It wasn't a lie, or a sarcastic retort. It was a void. An absence of information she refused to, or couldn't, provide.

Ambrose noticed something on her wrist. Her sleeve had ridden up slightly when she drank. There was a mark there. A dark, purple bruise that encircled the bone. A restraint mark.

He leaned forward slightly. "Let me see your arm."

Clarisa yanked her sleeve down, burying her hand in the fabric. "Kaleigh is probably waiting for you. You shouldn't be seen with the convict. It's bad for the stock price."

Ambrose felt a flash of irritation. She was deflecting. And she was right, but he hated that she was right.

"You're very considerate all of a sudden," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Clarisa leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. "I'm just tired, Ambrose. Leave it alone."

The car began to slow. They were turning into the Dillon Estate.

The iron gates-more ornate than the camp's, but gates nonetheless-swung open. The main house loomed ahead, a Georgian monster of brick and glass, blazing with lights. It looked like the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow her whole.

The Rolls-Royce glided to a stop under the portico.

Clarisa opened her eyes. Through the rain-streaked glass, she saw them.

Her mother. Her father. Kaleigh.

They were standing on the porch, framed by the warm glow of the entryway. A perfect family portrait.

The driver opened Clarisa's door. The cold air rushed back in.

Clarisa took a deep breath. Showtime.

She swung her legs out. As her injured foot hit the pavement, her knee buckled. The pain was blinding. She pitched forward.

Ambrose was there. He had exited his side and come around faster than she expected. He caught her by the elbow, his grip firm.

"I've got you," he muttered.

Clarisa reacted on instinct. She shoved him away, hard. "Get off!"

The shout echoed under the stone archway.

Ambrose stumbled back a step, his hands raised in surrender. His expression darkened.

Clarisa stood on one leg, trembling, clutching her plastic bag. She looked at him, her eyes wide with a feral kind of panic. Then she realized where she was. She realized who was watching.

She straightened her spine.

"I can walk," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't need your help."

She turned and limped toward the front door, dragging her swollen foot. Ambrose stood in the rain, watching her back. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

He typed a message to his head of security: Get me her file from the camp. The real one. Tonight.

Clarisa stood under the recessed lighting of the porch. Mud dripped from her sweatpants, pooling on the imported Italian marble. She was a stain on the pristine facade of the Dillon family.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Helen Dillon stepped out. She was wearing a silk evening gown, emerald green. Her hair was coiffed into a helmet of blonde perfection.

"Oh my god," Helen gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Look at you. You're... a mess."

Clarisa looked at her mother. There was no hug. No tears of joy. Just shock that her daughter had ruined the aesthetic.

"Hello, Mother," Clarisa said.

Kaleigh stepped out from behind Helen. She was wearing a soft, white cashmere cardigan that looked like it cost more than a car. She looked angelic. Innocent.

"Clarisa!" Kaleigh squealed. She rushed forward, arms open. "You're finally back!"

She lunged for a hug.

Clarisa sidestepped. It was a smooth, practiced movement. Kaleigh embraced the air.

"Don't," Clarisa said flatly. "You'll get your cashmere dirty. It's dry-clean only."

Kaleigh froze. She looked at Clarisa, then looked past her to Ambrose, who was walking up the steps. Her lower lip trembled perfectly.

"I just missed you," Kaleigh whispered, her voice breaking.

Ambrose reached the top step. He moved to Kaleigh's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. A protective gesture.

Clarisa felt a sharp pang in her chest, sharper than her bruised ribs. That used to be her spot.

"Let's go inside," Helen said nervously, glancing at the driveway. "Before the neighbors see."

They moved into the foyer. The crystal chandelier overhead was blinding. The light reflected off the polished floors, making Clarisa squint.

A maid stepped forward, reaching for Clarisa's plastic bag. "Let me take that for you, Miss."

Clarisa jerked the bag away, clutching it to her chest. "No."

Brady, who had been leaning against the staircase banister holding a tumbler of whiskey, laughed. "What's in there? Gold bars? Drugs?"

The word drugs hung in the air like smoke.

"It's my life," Clarisa said quietly. "It's the only thing I have left."

Brady rolled his eyes. "Dramatic. Just like always."

"Clarisa," Helen chided, smoothing her dress. "Watch your tone. Brady is your brother."

Clarisa turned her dead gaze on her mother. "And what am I? The stray dog you let in out of the rain?"

Helen paled. She looked away, unable to hold eye contact.

"Your room is ready, sister," Kaleigh said softly, leaning into Ambrose. "I made sure they put fresh flowers in it."

Clarisa looked around the foyer. The walls used to be lined with family photos. Now, they were different. There were photos of Kaleigh graduating. Kaleigh winning a debate trophy. Kaleigh and Ambrose at a gala.

Clarisa was gone. Erased.

"I don't see my room," Clarisa said. "I don't see me anywhere."

The room spun slightly. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only the pain in her ankle and the gnawing hunger in her belly. She swayed.

She bit the tip of her tongue, hard. The sharp pain grounded her. Do not faint. Do not give them the satisfaction.

"Mary," Helen snapped at the maid. "Take Clarisa to her room. Let her get cleaned up."

Clarisa turned to follow the maid. She didn't look back at Ambrose. She didn't look at her family. She walked with a limp, dragging her bad leg, a broken soldier marching away from the war.