Chapter 8
ELLIE
This time, I’m buzzing for an entirely different reason. Though, the pit in my stomach is still there.
I get in with my suitcase and my bag and my heartbeat in my throat. It’s too much. I can’t help but babble.
“Beautiful day, right? I mean, for November. It’s cold, but the sun’s out, which is nice.”
Silence.
“Do you mind if I ask your name?”
A pause. Then, without turning, “Dmitri.”
My eyebrows jump. I really didn’t expect him to answer.
“Dmitri,” I nod way too quickly. “Nice to meet you, Dmitri.”
He says nothing else. His eyes remain on the road, hands resting on the wheel at a precise ten-and-two.
I don’t push my luck. One acknowledgment is enough for me. I really am moving up in the world.
With an awkward grin I can’t seem to get rid of, I fold my hands in my lap and watch Chicago slide by through the window.
It isn’t long before the familiar streets give way to broader avenues, then tree-lined roads, and finally the long private drive with its soldier-straight trees and its hoity-toity gravel.
The gate opens. The guard performs a facial recognition scan. This time, he also takes my fingerprints.
“This is for estate access,” he explains. “Biometrics are required for entry and exit.”
It sounds extreme, but who am I to complain?
When we arrive at the front of the house, I find the same man who conducted my interview waiting for me in the foyer.
Mikhail, I believe his name is.
“Miss Calloway. Welcome.”
“Thank you, Mikhail. And please, it’s Ellie.”
He nods, but I suspect it will be Miss Calloway for the foreseeable future.
“This way, please.”
He leads me upstairs. The house unfolds in corridors and turns I’ll need weeks to memorize. And the question materializes in my mind again: what kind of people live in a place like this, let alone build it?
We stop at a huge door. Dark wood, brass handle.
“This is your room.”
I have to physically swallow my gasp when he pushes it open.
“Oh my God…” The words slip out as I step inside.
The room is enormous.
So is the bed. From a quick glance, I’d guess it could easily sleep four people. It’s covered in white linens, and what I’m fairly certain is a down comforter.
The headboard is upholstered in soft gray. The walls are warm ivory, and the hardwood floors are partially covered by a thick cream rug .
A writing desk by the window houses a lamp and a small vase of fresh white peonies.
My apartment could fit in here three times.
“I-I think there’s been a mistake,” I begin, pausing as my voice comes out wrong. Too thin.
“Is there a problem?”
“No. It’s just… I don’t need this much space…” I was expecting a converted storage closet, Harry Potter style. Or a staff room with a cot and a shared bathroom. Not this. Not a room with peonies and a rug that my feet sink into and windows that overlook a garden.
“I’m afraid there are no smaller options,” Mikhail says. “But, if necessary, I can bring up the prospect of a room change with?—”
“No! No. Please, I’m very grateful. It’s perfect,” I interrupt, hating that I’m already sounding like a nuisance. “I’m sure I’ll settle in in no time at all. Thank you.”
Mikhail eyes me for a moment. It doesn’t look like he’s used to someone like me. Welcome to the club, buddy. I’m new to people like you, too.
“Lunch will be served in about an hour,” he finally says. “I’ll have a tray brought up while you settle in.”
“Th-thank you,” I try to recover. “That would be lovely.”
“Very well.”
He turns to leave, but before he can, my curiosity gets the better of me. As usual. If I were a cat, I’d have run out of lives a long time ago.
“The parents,” I blurt out. “I mean, my employers. I, uh, when will I have the honor of meeting them?”
Mikhail stops briefly.
“Mr. Belov is traveling and likely won’t return until next week,” he explains. “Tomorrow, you’ll receive a full orientation, house rules, schedule, and expectations. Your work with Anya begins Monday. ”
“Can I ask—” I hesitate. “Anya’s mother. Will I be meeting her as well?”
The change is immediate. A micro-flinch, and suddenly a door is closing behind his eyes.
“Anya’s mother passed away,” he says, lips tightening. “At birth. You’ll find that the subject is not discussed in this household.”
My heart drops. Poor Anya.
And poor Mr. Belov too.
“I understand,” I somberly nod. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t move. “Miss Calloway. A few things you should know before tomorrow’s orientation.”
The nerves coil in my gut.
“The east wing is residential, consisting of your room, Anya’s room, the classroom, and the family living areas. You have full access here during daytime hours. After 9:00 p.m., please remain in your room or the residential corridor.”
“After nine?”
“Mr. Belov conducts business most evenings. The rest of the house is in active use by staff and associates. For your comfort and privacy, it’s best to stay in the residential wing at night.”
For my comfort.
“The west wing and the lower level are restricted. You’ll see doors with keypads. Please don’t attempt to access them. They’re administrative areas. If you need anything from those areas, ask Angelina or me. She will be the one helping you, and we’ll retrieve it for you.”
“Of course.”
“Your phone works normally inside the estate. The Wi-Fi password is on the card on your desk. However, I should mention that the estate network is monitored for security purposes. This is standard for a private residence of this size.”
I blink. “Monitored?”
“Routine security. Nothing invasive. It simply means that network 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?”
“I was going to say ‘formal,’ but quiet works too.”
She lets out a soft, polite laugh. “The house has its rhythms. You’ll learn them.” She moves toward the door. “If you need anything, just ring. I’m usually nearby. ”
“Thank you. Really.”
She nods and leaves. The door clicks shut.
I turn and stare at the food. It doesn’t look real.
When’s the last time I had a meal that smelled this good?
I carefully sit down at the table and study the plate with some suspicion. It only takes a second for any caution to melt away, though.
I’m starving.
My first bite is quickly followed by a second. I quickly lose count. The chicken is the best thing I’ve tasted in months.
I scarf it all down, unashamed. When your body has been running on peanut butter and granola bars, it takes what it can get.
After lunch, I feel much better. So much better that I decide to explore the residential wing, navigating the corridors Mikhail showed me and the rooms I’m allowed to enter.
The sunroom is beautiful, with floor-to-ceiling windows, plants, and warm light. I can see Anya using this space. The living room is formal, barely used. The main kitchen downstairs is industrial, accessible through a service corridor that smells of cleaning supplies.
Everything is perfectly maintained, and within each room I sense the faint, almost subliminal feeling of being observed.
I can’t point to a camera. I don’t see lenses or red lights or any of the obvious signs, but a prickling at the back of my neck, a tightness in my shoulders, the animal awareness of being watched is there.
It could be paranoia. Aftershocks of Landon. The surveillance, the knowledge of where I eat and what I order, the systematic dismantling of any illusion of privacy. It makes sense that I’d project that feeling onto a new environment, especially one with guards, gates, and keypads.
But it doesn’t feel like a projection. It feels like recognition.
Night falls early in November. By five, the windows are dark. By six, the house has shifted.
From my bedroom, I hear heavy footsteps in the corridor below. Not one person but several, moving with purpose. A door opens and closes. Then another. Low male voices speaking Russian. The words are indistinct through the floor, but the tone isn’t. It’s clipped. Urgent.
I sit on my bed and listen.
More footsteps sound in a different direction now, not below me, but to the west. The restricted wing. Heavy doors open and close, an electronic keypad beeps, and a lock disengages.
Then nothing.
A moment later, a faint thud I can’t identify.
My chest is fluttering. Anxiety seeps through my very pores.
The thud fades, and the silence swallows the house again. A few minutes pass, and footsteps retreat. A car starts somewhere outside.
I sit in the dark of my beautiful room counting my breaths.
One. Two. Three . I’m safe here.
Four. Five. Six. The gate is locked, and the guards are armed. Landon can’t reach me.
Seven. Eight. Nine. The sounds are nothing. I’m reading into things because my nervous system has been running on adrenaline for four years, and it doesn’t know how to stop.
Ten.
I get up and go to the bathroom, where I wash my face and gaze at my reflection.
I look exhausted.
“Everything will be alright,” I tell my reflection. It doesn’t seem to help.
But when I climb into bed, a new feeling joins the others .
Momentary bliss.
The sheets are impossibly soft. The pillows are the right amount of firm, and the comforter is warm without being heavy. I must fall asleep instantly, because the next thing I know, my eyes are opening and my phone clock is saying it’s just after midnight.
I also need to pee something fierce.
I trudge to the bathroom. On my way back, I stop at the bedroom door and find myself examining the handle and the lock.
It’s a standard door lock. The kind with a button on the inside that you press to lock. Normal. Ordinary.
But there’s more. Above the handle, mounted into the wood, small and discreet.
I slowly open the door and check the outside. The keypad is on the wrong side of the door.
Not normal. Not normal at all.
Because a keypad on the outside means someone can lock this door from the corridor. Someone can seal this room while I’m inside.
My heart starts to race.
I try to justify it, cycling through the possibilities.
It could be a security feature. In a house this size, with this much money, with the level of protection I’ve already seen, it could be a lockdown mechanism.
In case of a breach, the system locks every room to protect the occupants.
That makes sense. That’s the explanation a rational person would accept.
I’m a rational person.
I accept it.
My heart’s still running a marathon as I crawl back into bed and pull up the covers.
This time, sleep doesn’t come as easy.