A wool rug spreads under the bed and sitting area in a not-quite-beige that keeps footprints like a memory for a few seconds and then releases them. I’ve been tracing my own marks, back and forth, like a tether.
I haven’t been fed, and I’ve been too afraid to drink the water. I’m not really hungry, but my throat is pretty dry.
I remember the arrival too clearly. The car driving through a wrought-iron gate. The curve of a drive lined with clipped hedges. A big house bathed in shadow. The brief wash of light when a door opened, then closed.
A woman with a neat bun and an unreadable face led me up one flight, then another, palms tucked politely against her skirt like I was a guest instead of a prisoner.
“Here,” she said, opening this door. “If you need the bathroom, it’s there. If you need water, there.” She didn’t say, “If you try to leave…” She didn’t say, “If you scream…”
Those weren’t necessary.
No one has laid a hand on me. No one has said what they want. Last night, when the courtyard finally went quiet enough for me to hear my own pulse, I stood at the window and made a list in my head: doors, windows, schedule, guard rotation, hinges, catches, the drop to the flagstones below, the distance to the fountain. The list didn’t add up to escape. So I erased it and started again.
I sit back against the headboard and fold my arms. The linens rustle. The clock’s hands tick softly around the face.
It’s a beautiful room.
It’s a cage.
The lock turns.
A clean mechanical slide, then the knob turns. My body is rolling off the bed and up before my mind catches up. The door opens inward on its silent hinges, and I’m already on my feet.
It’s the woman from last night.
Tidy bun. Smooth skirt. Calm face with a neutral expression. She carries a tray set with a pale linen napkin and porcelain that clinks as she walks. A warm, savory scent follows her: coffee, eggs, something stewed with tomato, buttered toast.
It’s like a sick parody of the breakfast Gio brought me only a few days ago. My stomach contracts as if it’s just remembered it needs to eat.
She doesn’t look at me. She moves for the small table by the window and places the tray down. The curtains lift and settle around her with the air she produces. When she straightens, she steps back and to the side.
That’s when he fills the doorway behind her.
Not the man in my house. Not the driver. Someone else.
He looks mid-fifties, maybe more. Dark hair combed back neatly, gray at the temples. His suit is navy cut so well you don’t see seams, the shirt is pale blue, cuffs of his jacket fastened with small dark studs. No tie. A bulky black watch peeks out under the sleeve.
He doesn’t cross the threshold until the woman has stepped aside. When he does, he puts one hand in his jacket pocket, as if to show me he isn’t bringing anything else through the door.
“Good morning,” he says.
The voice is a surprise because it has no threat in it. It’s warm, polished, and cordial. It’s the voice of someone who’s had a lifetime of rooms listening when he speaks and never needed to raise it.
I don’t answer. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I make myself breathe, but don’t move any closer.
As he steps into the room, the woman steps around him and exits. Her flat shoes make no sound on the hall floor. The door is open a fraction, and then, with an economical push of his fingers, it closes behind her. The lock does not catch again. It doesn’t have to. He knows I’m not going anywhere.
He pulls the chair at the little table back a few inches with two fingertips and sits, then gestures lightly to the other chair.
“Please.”
I don’t go anywhere. “Where is my mother?”
He folds a knee over the other, crosses his ankle. His attention stays on my face. “As promised, we have not touched her.”
“Who are you?” I ask. “What do you want with me?”
His expression doesn’t change. If anything, it settles. He tips his chin to the second chair again, a minimal invitation. “Eat.”
