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.

Hunger woke her up. It was a sharp, twisting cramp in her stomach that made her gasp before her eyes even opened.

Clarisa sat up. The light coming through the thin curtains was gray. Morning.

She went to the small wardrobe. It was mostly empty, save for a few of her old clothes from high school. Out of style. Out of season.

She pulled out a black turtleneck sweater. It was wool, too hot for the season, but she needed coverage. She put it on. It hung off her frame like a tent. She rolled up the sleeves, but they kept sliding down.

Bethel entered with a tray.

"Breakfast," she said.

Clarisa looked at the tray. One slice of dry toast. A cup of black coffee.

"That's it?" Clarisa asked.

Bethel didn't look her in the eye. "Mrs. Dillon said... she said you need to watch your weight. She wants you to look like a model again."

Clarisa laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "A model? I look like a corpse."

She ate the toast in two bites. She drank the coffee, ignoring the burn.

"I'm going to see Grandmother," Clarisa announced, standing up.

Bethel moved to block the door. "You can't. Brady said-"

Clarisa didn't stop. She walked right up to Bethel, invading her personal space. "Move."

Bethel moved.

Clarisa walked out of the lodge, across the wet lawn, and toward the East Wing of the main house. The gardeners stopped their work to stare. She ignored them.

She reached the patio doors of her grandmother's suite.

Brady was standing there. He was leaning against the glass, arms crossed over his chest.

"Lost?" he asked.

"I want to see Grandmother," Clarisa said.

"She's resting. She doesn't want to see you."

"Does she know I'm here? Or are you lying to her?" Clarisa stepped closer. "Grandmother is the only one in this family with a spine. She wouldn't turn me away."

Brady pushed off the wall. He shoved Clarisa. It wasn't hard, but in her weakened state, she stumbled back three steps.

"She's fragile, Clarisa. She doesn't need a junkie upsetting her heart condition."

"I'm not a junkie," Clarisa said, her voice rising.

Helen walked out onto the patio, holding a fashion magazine. She stopped when she saw Clarisa. Her eyes went to the oversized sweater.

"Good lord," Helen said, wrinkling her nose. "Why are you wearing that? You're swimming in it. You look grotesque."

"This is the result of your 'wellness camp,' Mother," Clarisa spat.

"It was rehab!" Helen cried, clutching her pearls. "We did it to save you!"

"I never touched drugs!" Clarisa screamed. "Kaleigh put them in my bag! You know she did!"

"Shut up!" Brady roared. "Don't you dare slander her!"

The shouting drew attention. The glass doors to the main living room opened. Kaleigh stepped out, looking terrified. Ambrose was right behind her.

Kaleigh shrank behind Ambrose, gripping his jacket. "Is she... is she having an episode?"

Ambrose looked at Clarisa. He saw the shaking hands. He saw the desperation. But he also saw the fire in her eyes. It didn't look like withdrawal. It looked like fury.

"Get back to your kennel," Brady sneered, pointing at the guest house. "You're embarrassing us."

Clarisa looked at them. The united front. The wall of lies.

She stopped fighting. Her shoulders dropped. The fire in her eyes turned to ice.

She let out a laugh. It was a chilling sound, devoid of humor.

"Fine," Clarisa said softly. "I won't see her. But remember this moment. Remember when you denied me."

She turned around.

"Sleep well tonight, family," she called over her shoulder.

She walked away. She could feel Ambrose's eyes burning a hole in her back.