The house changed after the dinner.
I can’t point to the exact moment. It wasn’t a sound or a conversation. Not a single event I can circle on a calendar. It was more of a shift in barometric pressure. The house was always tense, but now, it’s reverberating through the walls.
The guards doubled. I noticed it the first morning after. Men I hadn’t seen before, positioned at intervals I couldn’t map, wearing the same tactical vests and the same flat expressions, but with an energy that was sharper. More alert. The perimeter patrols that used to pass by my window every thirty minutes now pass every fifteen. The front gate, which used to open and close, is now permanently shut.
Nobody told me why. Nobody tells me anything in this house. Information moves through walls and closed doors and conversations in Russian that stop when I enter a room.
That was almost a month ago.
The tension hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s calcified, hardened into a permanence, a new baseline that everyone in the house has adjusted to except me. Angelina smiles the same but moves faster. Mikhail’s thermostat-warmth has dropped adegree. Dmitri, who was never friendly, has become a concrete wall, not only silent but sealed.
Rolan has disappeared.
Not the way he disappeared during my first week when he was on a business trip. He’s in the house. I know because I hear him sometimes.
His footsteps in the corridor below. A door opening and closing in the restricted wing. Mikhail confirmed it casually when I asked with a “Mr. Belov is working from his office this week.” That means he’s been here the entire time. Sixty feet from my room. Behind the door I’ve never been invited through.
He’s here, and he’s avoiding me. I don’t know if it’s because of the dinner, the kitchen, or a reason I’m not privy to, and not knowing is worse than any answer would be.
Anya is fine. Better than fine, actually. She bounced back from the fever within two days, her body forgetting the illness faster than her mind forgot the nights I spent beside her bed.
We’ve settled into a rhythm now. Mornings are lessons with reading, math, and science wrapped in stories and art. Afternoons are freer: painting, drawing, walking in the garden when the weather allows it.
Today is Sunday, and it’s my day off. I’ve been in this house for almost six weeks without leaving, and the walls are starting to close in.
I text Maren:
Coffee today? Our usual spot? I need civilization and a cappuccino that costs too much.
She responds immediately.
MARE
YES. 11? I have gossip that cannot be delivered via text.
11 works. See you there.
I shower and get dressed. Nothing special, just jeans, a sweater, and boots I haven’t worn since I moved in.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and notice my skin is better. My eyes are clearer, too, and my hair is shinier.
I grab my coat, making sure I have my phone and wallet. The emergency cash is still in the lining. I checked last week. I head downstairs, through the foyer, out the front door, and down the gravel drive toward the gate.
It’s a beautiful morning. Cold but bright. A day where the sun is low and the light is golden. The bare trees look like sculptures. I breathe in, and the air tastes different outside.
The gate is ahead, where two guards are posted instead of one. A new configuration, post-dinner. I approach with what I hope is a casual smile.
“Good morning. I’m heading out for a few hours. Day off.”
The guard on the left — the one I’ve seen before, with the broad face, crew cut — glances at his colleague.
“Miss Calloway,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have authorization to leave the premises.”
The words don’t register immediately.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“You don’t have authorization to leave the premises at this time.”
