Chapter VII. 2007 #2
“Wonder where they hide the cameras?” Camilla said as she stared at the walls, every nook and cranny another possibility for concealed surveillance.
She had a feeling that even when she was alone, someone was watching.
Making sure she was being good. Praying or sleeping or otherwise engaged in some sort of activity that would make God proud.
Or, at the bare minimum, not trying to burn the place down.
Ten minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. Even with the headache bearing down on her, she almost laughed at the irony of it. Such theater of privacy was absurd when every door required a key code and every minute of every day was accounted for.
The door swung open and Barbara reappeared, a silver dome–topped tray in hand.
“Here we are,” she said, and placed it carefully on the little table beside the door.
She withdrew the lid with a flourish. “Ibuprofen, water, a Greek yogurt, some almonds, and a banana.” She pointed to each item in turn, that same tiny-toothed smile stuck to her face.
Camilla grabbed the two pills on the tray and the water with a mumbled “Thanks,” and swallowed.
“I suggest you get some sleep. Remember, morning prayer starts promptly at—”
“Six,” Camilla interrupted. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Very good. See you in the morning, Miss Burson,” she said, and slipped out.
Camilla left the yogurt and the banana but ate a few of the almonds and then made her way over to the bed. The day was crashing in on her, making it impossible to keep her eyes open.
Tomorrow, she would figure out what to do. See if she could find Brianna and talk with her and get to the bottom of the Dark Sisters and the fact that her mother had seen them but was trying to hide it.
She fell into the bed with her clothes still on and wondered how a place so regimented could be this comfortable and luxurious. Within minutes, she was asleep.
IT WAS ANOTHER knock at the door that woke her, the sharp rap startling her so she sat up gasping in the dark, a scream dying at the back of her throat as Barbara opened the door and stepped neatly inside.
“I thought you might want a wake-up call this morning. Since it’s your first day,” she said, advancing into the room until she stood over Camilla like a mother waking her daughter for school. She held another glass of water and a small white ramekin, which she offered Camilla.
Whatever was inside rattled as Camilla took the ramekin. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Vitamins,” Barbara said.
Camilla peered down at the two white pills. “I’m not taking those.”
“I would advise you do.”
“Or what?”
“It’s harder the other way,” Barbara said, holding out the glass of water. Camilla could only imagine that the man who drove her there would love to be the one to pin her and force the pills down her throat.
Begrudgingly, she lifted the ramekin to her lips. “Cheers,” she said. At least they weren’t trying to hide that they were keeping the women happy by drugging them to the gills. No wonder all the women found their way back to God. Take enough drugs, and you could see him in person.
“Open,” Barbara said, and Camilla rolled her eyes as the woman checked under her tongue to be certain she had, in fact, swallowed the pills.
“Good girl. I trust you’ll want to take a moment to freshen up before morning prayer?
” She glanced at Camilla’s rumpled clothing—the same she wore the day before—and wrinkled her nose.
Camilla didn’t give a shit if she wasn’t perfectly coiffed for the duration of her time on Retreat, but she didn’t think Barbara would follow her into the bathroom.
If she had a minute alone, she could try to get rid of the pills.
She could only hope she was able to get the pills up before they fully broke down and flooded her bloodstream, leaving her in a pliable mental fog.
“Sure,” she said, and turned toward the bathroom.
“You’ll want to hurry though. Wouldn’t want to be late on your first day.”
Camilla didn’t bother asking the consequences this time. She had a feeling it would be another variation of “it’s harder the other way.”
She tugged the door to the bathroom closed behind her, relieved when Barbara didn’t tell her to leave it open, and then turned on the sink, so the noise would cover the sound of her puking.
She would have to be quick.
She knelt and angled her fingers toward the back of her throat, hoping it would actually work rather than leaving her gagging as tears ran down her face.
She was lucky. Three tries, and she flushed the mess away, hoping the pills were gone.
Avoiding the mirror, she brushed her teeth and gargled with the mouthwash they’d left on the counter with the assortment of other toiletries.
She dragged a brush through her hair without bothering with the curling iron and hairspray and makeup also set out on the counter.
As if this wasn’t a gilded cage meant for pampered animals at all but an extension of your own home.
Maybe better than your own home. Because it was there that you’d learned all your nasty, secret habits.
Behind her, a walk-in closet opened, lined with racks of clothing, wrinkle free and ready to wear as if they’d been expecting her.
She tugged a pair of cropped cream linen pants from the hanger to go with the turquoise and chartreuse Pucci top she already held, marveling that they would stock the closet with such a loud designer.
She’d pictured the women at Retreat in all neutrals—a sea of white and oatmeal and dusty pinks.
Instead, her closet looked like a peacock’s wet dream.
Probably in case she ran. She’d be easier to spot in bright colors.
A chill worked its way up her back. Nothing on Retreat was done by accident. Every decision was tactical. Everything planned down to the smallest detail to give the illusion of freedom when, really, this was a prison built on their sins.
She went slowly back into the bedroom, feeling unseen eyes itching at her skin, and closed the door.
“See? Isn’t that much better?” Barbara stood and smoothed her skirt.
Camilla forced herself to nod. She’d taken pills—whatever they were meant to do for her, she knew they weren’t vitamins. They were expecting her to be compliant. As much as she hated it, she would have to play along.
“I’ll show you to morning prayer and breakfast, but after today, we’ll expect you to get yourself there.” She opened the door, the hallway’s light flooding into the still dark of the bedroom. “On time,” she added, and held the door open for Camilla to pass through.
Camilla blinked as she took in everything she’d not seen the night before.
The hallway stretched to her left, brushed metal sconces accenting the other doorways.
Only then did she realize how large the rooms must be.
The hallway seemed interminable, but there were only four other doors.
Four other women who could be down this hallway, and even still, Camilla realized it was entirely possible she was alone.
That her father had ensured she would be isolated, unable to even make small talk with the women also staying on her hall.
“This hallway will lead you directly to the main atrium,” Barbara said, and handed her a small map.
“From there you can find the worship room for Sunday services, the dining room, and the Bible study room.” She tapped the glossy surface of the map.
“All individual sessions are here, in Wing A. You’ll get your assignment after breakfast. You’ll see each room is numbered, and you’ll report there promptly at eight. Group sessions are in Wing B.”
Barbara picked up her pace, the click of her heels muffled by the thick carpeting, and Camilla hurried to keep up. She only processed every other word out of Barbara’s mouth, and she anticipated getting in trouble for not following her schedule sooner rather than later.
“The Annex is where you’ll find the amenities.
The spa, Pilates studio, pool—indoor and heated—and salon.
You have one free hour on Saturdays to schedule anything at the spa or salon—you’ll check in and check out for your appointment—and the pool and studio are open daily.
You may be advised during individual sessions to visit either. Again, you’ll check in and out.”
Finally, they reached the end of the hallway and turned, the atrium opening around them like a flower.
The ceiling vaulted upward in the center, all glass and arched wooden beams, the first glow of morning casting lavender shadows through the vast space.
In the center, a water feature trickled through lush greenery before settling into a pool where gold and orange koi flitted back and forth.
The air was cool and had the damp, chlorinated scent of all hotels.
The one they tried to cover with lemongrass or green tea but that lingered no matter how many chemicals they pumped through the air.
Beyond, the atrium branched into further hallways—the wings and Annex Barbara had mentioned.
Somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed and another answered, her voice a low murmur.
Barbara glanced down at the watch on her wrist. Van Cleef & Arpels.
Of course. Even the people who worked here were wealthy, in service of The Path because they didn’t need the money.
Only the prestige of being close to her father.
A vestigial bit of power meant to sustain them.
Another illusion. She wondered just how far she would have to scratch to understand the full truth of her father’s influence.
“Just in time. Dining room is this way,” Barbara said.
Camilla followed, remembering to keep her steps slow and shuffling so there was no suspicion she hadn’t taken her pills. A set of French doors stood open, and beyond that, the dining room.