Chapter 12: The Window Note

The front door slammed shut, taking the voices with it.

I sat frozen on the bed, the silence of the house rushing back in to fill the space. *Secure environment.* *Transport team.*

They weren't just going to lock me in the bedroom anymore. They were going to lock me away.

I looked at the clock. 3:15 PM. Mark wouldn't be back for hours. Chloe was likely downstairs, guarding the perimeter like a soldier at a checkpoint.

I needed an ally. A witness. Someone who wasn't on the payroll.

I grabbed a napkin from the lunch tray Chloe had left—untouched—hours ago. My hands shook as I smoothed it out on my knee. I searched the nightstand drawer for a pen. Nothing. They had taken everything sharp, everything useful.

I looked at my makeup bag on the dresser. I dragged myself out of bed, my legs feeling like lead. Inside, I found a black eyeliner pencil.

I pressed the tip to the napkin. The wax dragged, but the letters were stark and black.

*HELP.*
*TRAPPED.*
*CALL POLICE.*

I folded the napkin into a tight square. I needed to get to the window.

The curtains were drawn, heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the afternoon sun. I pulled them back an inch. The light stung my eyes, blindingly bright after days of dimness.

Outside, the suburban street was quiet. A delivery truck rumbled past. A dog barked.

And there, in the garden next door, was Mrs. Gable.

She was on her knees in a flowerbed, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and gardening gloves. She was the neighborhood busybody, the woman who knew everyone's trash schedule and everyone's secrets. Mark hated her.

She was perfect.

I tapped on the glass.

*Tap. Tap. Tap.*

She didn't hear me. She was humming to herself, deadheading petunias.

I tapped harder, using my ring. *Clink. Clink. Clink.*

Mrs. Gable paused. She tipped her head back, the brim of her hat revealing a face lined with years of skepticism. She scanned the facade of our house.

I waved the napkin. I pressed it against the glass, praying she could see the black letters.

She squinted. She stood up slowly, brushing dirt from her knees. She took a step toward the fence that separated our properties.

"Please," I whispered, my breath fogging the glass. "Please look."

She shielded her eyes with her hand. She was looking right at me. Recognition dawned on her face. Her mouth opened to say something.

The bedroom door handle turned.

I spun around, shoving the napkin into the pocket of my pajama pants. I grabbed the curtain and yanked it closed just as the door swung open.

Chloe stood there. She wasn't holding a tray this time. She wasn't smiling.

"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice was ice.

"I... I wanted some light," I stammered, leaning against the window frame for support. "It's so dark in here."

Chloe walked across the room in three long strides. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the window. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her fingers digging into my skin.

"Dr. Thorne said the light hurts your eyes, Elara. Remember?"

She reached past me and grabbed the edges of the curtains. She pulled them together with a violent *swish*, plunging the room back into gloom. She produced a small, silver key from her pocket and locked the window latch.

Then she turned to me. She was close enough that I could smell her breath—mint and coffee.

"Let's keep it dark," she whispered. "It's better for everyone."