I look around for anything I could use as leverage. A lamp. Even a heavy book. But everything here is clean-lined and fixed in place.
The entire atmosphere is…curated. Like parts of the house were designed more for aesthetic than function.
“Bix,” comes Carlos’s voice from upstairs, playful but stretched thinner than before. “Let’s not make it awkward. You want this.”
He’s not hurrying. The sound of his shoes is lazy now, casual. He laughs softly. The laugh of someone watching a game play out as expected.
For God’s sake, where’s the back door?
Sprinting through the house, I try every window, every door. There’s no escape.
“Bix! Feeling alone?” Carlos’s singsong voice swirls through the hallways like vapor. “No worries. I’m coming for you!”
I turn down a narrow hallway and twist the handle of a door. It's a utility room with a concrete floor, white tile walls, and industrial shelving along one side.
A washer and dryer sit against the back wall, surrounded by neat rows of detergent bottles and folded towels. It looks unused. Like everything else in this house, it feels more like a movie set than a space.
Then I see it: a narrow window behind the dryer. No trim, no curtains. Just a clean glass rectangle tucked into the wall a few feet below the ceiling. It’s small, but maybe not too small.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
I clamber onto the dryer, shift the latch, and the window creaks open. I wedge one leg through, then another, and ease myself down to the cement below.
I sprint down the drive, bare feet slapping pavement as I move toward the distant rows of houses. They’re too spread out.
I reach into my bag for my phone. No signal. No way to call for help. No maps. Just me and silence.
I run anyway. Past long driveways, empty patios, deserted mansions shimmering like ghosts.
Then, a flash of red ahead. Tail lights.
There’s a car backing out at the end of the street.
I sprint. It may be my only hope.
Gasping breathlessly, I pounce on the driver’s window, finding a woman with a young girl buckled into the front seat beside her.
“Help,” I sputter. “There’s a man attacking me. Please let me get in. Please drive me to the village.”
She blinks, startled. Then her eyebrows lift.
For a moment, I think she doesn’t understand me. Then I see it—the way her eyes track me. Not the words, but the fear. She sees it. She knows.
“Let me in, please,” I say, looking over at Carlos’s mansion.
She hesitates, her hand on the gear shift. The child in the front seat looks at me like I’m some sort of entertainment.
At last, the woman nods and clicks the button to unlatch the back door. I open it and slide in, heart pounding. Only when the lock clicks behind me do my muscles loosen slightly.
“Where... where go?” she asks in broken English.
“The village,” I say. “Just the village is fine.”
The car rolls out slowly—not fast enough for my taste.
I don’t feel safe until the woman drops me off in the center of the village. The little girl takes one last look at me as I get out.
I thank her profusely and then wave as I make my way back to the hotel, feeling cheap and disgusted with everything.
