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.

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.