TASH: Love you.
I want to call her. Want to hear her voice telling me I'm not going to die here. But if I hear her voice, I'll break, and I can't break.
Not yet.
I change into the uniform, black dress, white apron, sensible shoes, and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like I'm playing dress-up. Like a little girl who put on her mother's clothes and is about to be caught.
The burner phone sits at the bottom of my bag, silent and waiting.
I haven't reported anything to Patrick yet. Haven't called, haven't texted. And every hour that passes, I know he's getting angrier.
Last night, he sent a photo of Ethan walking to school. Just walking. Nothing else. The message was clear:I'm watching. Don't forget.
I shove the phone deeper into my bag and go to meet Sofia.
By the third hour, I'm lost.
Not physically lost—Sofia's instructions were clear. But mentally lost, drowning in information I can't process because half my brain is still in that living room watching my father's head blow open.
The main floor is a maze of rooms that all blur together. Formal dining room, sitting room, library, study with a locked door. Sofia shows me where supplies are kept, which rooms need daily cleaning, and which are off-limits.
"You'll start with the guest wing," she says finally, handing me a caddy full of cleaning supplies. "Mr. Volkov is in meetings until this evening. Use the time wisely."
She leaves, and I'm alone in this massive fortress with my thoughts and the smell of bleach that won't go away.
I should start cleaning. That's what a normal employee would do.
But Tash's voice echoes in my head from three days ago, sitting in my destroyed living room while Mom slept upstairs sedated:You need to map his private spaces fast. Patrick will want details. The sooner you give him something, no matter how small, the more time you’ll buy yourself.
I can't do this. I can't—
But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Ethan crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Ethan asking me if we're ever going to be safe again, and I had to lie and say yes.
Three months. Just survive three months.
I head for the east wing and distract myself with thoughts of how Tash and I became best friends.
It all started when my father suddenly told us we needed to move from our old apartment when I was about eight, and we moved to a nicer neighborhood. We were all happy because Dad got a new, higher-paying job, and we got to live among the wealthy.
Naturally, I had to go to school nearby, and that’s where I met Tash, a tawny but fierce kid who helped me out when others bullied me for being new.
“Get up, don’t be a mouse or they’ll eat you up!” She said, and I loved her since then.
We realized we lived in the same estate, and our friendship grew even stronger.
And when I realized who she was, or rather who her father is, it didn't stop my love for her one bit. Instead, I loved her even more. Because how can a girl raised in such a violent environment be so pure-hearted?
I snap out of my thoughts when I see something weird.
Huh?
Someone left a door propped open—probably maintenance. With my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, I slip into the private corridor.
It's different here. Darker. The art on these walls is violent—abstract pieces in reds and blacks that look like crime scenes. There are fewer cameras, or maybe they're just better hidden.
Every step I take feels like walking toward my own execution.
I try the first door. Locked. Second door. Also locked.