Ms. Sinclair. The first two days, I was Evie. Now I'm Ms. Sinclair, and his voice has that edge.
I pour coffee I don't want. "Any word on how long? My school year ends next week. The kids will be wondering where I am."
Nothing.
"I know Sera must be worried. If I could just?—"
"No outside contact." Derek's fingers keep moving on the keyboard. "You know the protocol."
"Right." I wrap my hands around the mug. The warmth is almost painful. "I just thought, since it's been almost a week?—"
"Soon."
That word. He's said it fourteen times. I've been counting.
Here's the test. The one that's been building since day three when I asked to see some identification and Derek's jaw went tight before he smiled.
"Agent Moreau said he'd check in by day four." I sip the coffee. Bitter and burnt. "Has he called? I'd feel better hearing from him directly."
The silence stretches.
Travis glances at Derek.
Derek's fingers stop moving.
It's less than a second. A fraction of a fraction. But I've spent twelve years watching five-year-olds—reading their faces when they lie about who drew on the wall, who took the last cracker, who hit first.
Children are terrible liars. These men are better, but not good enough.
"Agent Moreau is handling things on his end." Derek's voice is perfectly even. "He'll be in touch when there's something to report."
They don't know.
They don't know that I caught Moreau's name from an overheard call on day one. That he's my only lifeline to the actual FBI, the only agent I met before Derek and Travis took over. They don't know I've been holding that name like a card in my pocket, waiting.
And now I know something.
Either Moreau hasn't called when he said he would, which means something's wrong with him. Or Moreau has called, and they're lying about it.
Both options end the same way.
I'm not being protected. I'm being held.
"I'll try to get some more sleep." My voice doesn't waver. The mask is perfect—years of practice, years of being the agreeable daughter, the teacher who never makes waves. "Let me know if you hear anything?"
Derek grunts.
I take my coffee back to the bedroom and close the door with a soft click.
I don't look at the ceiling knots. Instead, I walk to the window. I’ve tried it casually before, but now I put my shoulder into the frame, testing the resistance. It isn't just painted shut; there’s a screw driven through the sash into the frame at the very top, hidden by a layer of grime.
This isn't a safety measure for wildlife. It's a seal.
I sink onto the bed, mug cooling in my hands, and let the mask slip. My heart is pounding so hard that my vision pulses at the edges. My hands want to shake, so I grip the metal spatula beneath the mattress until the tremor becomes pressure instead of movement.
The ghost of Daniel’s disapproval tries to rise, a familiar whisper about being paranoid, but I cut it off. I don't need his permission to survive.
I trust my gut.
