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.

Dinner was mandatory. Bethel had made that clear.

Clarisa walked into the formal dining room. The table was set for six, loaded with silver and crystal. Roast beef, truffle mashed potatoes, glazed carrots. The smell was overwhelming.

She sat at the far end of the table, opposite her father, Jethro. He hadn't spoken a word to her yet. He just chewed his meat, looking at his iPad.

"So," Kaleigh said brightly, breaking the silence. "What did you learn in that place, Clarisa? Did you learn to weave baskets?"

Brady snorted into his wine glass. "Probably learned how to dodge work detail."

"As long as she broke her bad habits," Helen said, smiling tightly.

Clarisa held her knife and fork. Her hands were trembling. Clink. Clink. The silverware hit the china plate.

She put them down.

"I learned a lot," Clarisa said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried.

She stood up.

"What are you doing?" Brady asked, annoyed. "Sit down."

Clarisa began to unbutton her left cuff. Her fingers were slow, deliberate.

"You asked what I learned," she said.

She grabbed the sleeve of her black sweater and yanked it up. Hard. Past her elbow. Past her bicep.

The room went silent.

The skin of her arm was a ruin.

There were circular burn marks-cigarette burns-scattered like constellations. Some were old, silvery white scars. Others were a deep, bruised purple, the puckered skin of keloid tissue that spoke of more recent, but fully healed, trauma.

And the tracks. Not from shooting up heroin, but from forced sedation. Bruised punctures where needles had been jammed in without care.

Helen dropped her wine glass. Red wine splashed across the white tablecloth like a gunshot wound.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Clarisa walked around the table. She stopped right next to Brady. She shoved her arm into his face.

"Look at it," she commanded. "This is what I learned. I learned how to smell burning flesh. My own."

Brady recoiled, pushing his chair back. His face drained of color. "You... you did that to yourself."

"Did I?" Clarisa pointed to a scar that wrapped around her wrist. "This is from the handcuffs when I refused to sign the confession. And this?" She pointed to a burn. "This is because I was too slow during the drill."

She looked at Kaleigh. Kaleigh's hands were over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

"It's horrible," Kaleigh sobbed. "Sister, why would you hurt yourself like that?"

Clarisa stared at her. "Stop acting, Kaleigh. The audience is captivated already."

"We didn't know," Jethro said, his voice hoarse. He finally looked up from his iPad. "The brochure... it said it was a therapeutic retreat."

"You didn't want to know," Clarisa corrected. "You sent me to hell because it was convenient."

She slowly rolled her sleeve back down, covering the horror.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

She turned and walked out of the room. The silence she left behind was heavy, suffocating, and filled with the stench of their own guilt.