Chapter 3 You are afraid of me

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.