I blink. “Monitored?”
“Routine security. Nothing invasive. It simply means thatnetwork traffic is logged. If that’s a concern, you’re welcome to use your mobile data for personal browsing.”
He says it casually, but what he’s actually saying is:We see what you do online.And the fact that he’s telling me openly means either he trusts me to accept it, or he wants me to know that I’m being watched.
Both options make my skin tighten.
Not that it makes any difference.
“No concern,” I assure him. “Thank you for letting me know.”
With that, he finally leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Being suddenly alone here makes it all seem even more like a dream.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I stand in the middle of the room. The beautiful, enormous, ivory-walled room with its peonies, pillows, and views of the garden. I stand, and I listen.
Silence.
The same thick, pressurized silence from the interview that makes me aware of my own heartbeat.
In my apartment, silence is thin. You hear through it. The pipes, the neighbors, the street. It’s porous. This silence is solid. It wraps around you like a hand.
I unpack. It barely takes any time at all. My clothes go in the closet, which is the size of my kitchen and has built-in shelving and a full-length mirror. My toiletries go in the bathroom — marble, white, with a shower with three heads and a tub deep enough to swim in.
My dad’s flannel shirt goes under the pillow.
Maren’s emergency cash goes into the lining of my winter coat, tucked between the fabric.
The afternoon passes quietly until a knock sounds at the door.
The nerves are still there, but they’ve tangled into a more anxious form.
I stand, smoothing my shirt, and open it.
The woman on the other side is perhaps an inch or two taller than me, which, at five-foot-three, is most people. She’s young, maybe my age, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and warm brown eyes. She’s carrying a tray — silver, polished, holding a covered plate, a glass of water, a linen napkin, and a small bowl of fruit.
“Miss Elizabeth?” She smiles. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen since I entered through those gates. “I’m Angelina. I work in the house.”
“Hi. Come in, please.” I step aside, still slightly dazed. “And please call me Ellie.”
She carries the tray past me with ease and sets it on a small table near the window.
“Lunch,” Angelina says, lifting the cover from the plate. “Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and a small salad.”
“It smells incredible,” I sigh.
My stomach, which has been surviving on granola bars and anxiety, makes a rumble that I hope she doesn’t hear.
“If you have dietary restrictions, I can let the kitchen know.”
“No, this is fantastic. Thank you.” I pause. “Angelina, can I ask you a question?”
She smiles. “Of course.”
I hesitate for a moment. “Is the house always this…” I trail off, unsure how to ask the obvious without seeming like a complainer.
“Quiet?”
