James #2
I move before she can see the reaction she almost dragged out of me. The first camera is tucked beneath the overhang of the decking, small enough that most would miss it unless they knew where to look. I point to it as we pass.
“Camera one. It covers the rear entrance, kitchen windows, and the path to the vehicle bay.”
She looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s tiny.”
“That’s the point.”
“Is it recording us right now?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze flicks toward me with interest rather than panic, and for a moment, I think this might reassure her exactly as intended. “Should I wave?”
“No.”
She lifts her sleeve-covered hand and wiggles her fingers at it. “Hello, tiny camera. I hope you’re enjoying the show.”
“It doesn’t have feelings.”
“That’s what they all say before the robot uprising. Didn’t you watch Terminator or The Matrix?”
I continue down the steps and onto the path, keeping my pace slower than usual.
She doesn’t complain, but I’ve noticed the way her breathing changes when she moves too fast, the smallest tightening around her mouth when her ribs object.
She’s trying to hide the pain, which is another pointless battle she will not win.
“There are four cameras on the main lodge, two on the vehicle bay, one inside the storage room, and another at the generator shed.”
“Inside the storage room?” she asks. “What if I want to steal canned peaches in private?”
“Then I’ll try to respect your dignity.”
“How noble of you.”
“There are blind spots inside the house, in the bedrooms and bathroom,” I add, because she needs to know that. “I don’t monitor private spaces.”
She glances across at me, and some of the humor slips from her face before she replaces it with something brighter. “I should hope not. I perform my best shower concerts in private.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Wise. They’re powerful enough to alter weather patterns. I would need to charge you premium price for a performance.”
Her shoulders lift, hidden beneath my hoodie, and her attention moves from me to the nearest tree line. What is that about?
“This entire section is covered by motion sensors.” I gesture toward the posts half-hidden among the brush. “Anything larger than a fox triggers an alert inside the house and on my phone.”
“Poor foxes. Excluded from the surveillance state.”
“The foxes are afforded privacy.”
“Kind of you.”
“The sensors run along the inner perimeter. There is another line farther out, past the trees. If someone breaches that, I’ll know before they get close to the lodge.”
Snow gathers on her hood. She tilts her head back to study the ridge, but her expression no longer carries the wonder from a few minutes ago. “How far does it go?”
“The property?”
“The boundary.”
The cadence of her words has changed. She’s no longer the teasing captive, but someone assessing the situation and measuring it against something in history.
“Depends which one you mean.”
She looks at me then.
“The natural boundary runs along the ridge and down to the ravine on the eastern side. The security boundary sits inside that, marked by sensors and cameras. The safe boundary is closer.”
“Safe boundary,” she repeats.
“It’s where you can walk without me.”
Her lips part, but whatever she planned to say dies.
“It isn’t about controlling where you go,” I add, because something about her silence sits wrong. “It’s about making sure that if something trips the outer line, you aren’t already too far from cover.”
“Right.”
One word. Too agreeable. We keep walking.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet as the path curves past the greenhouse.
Condensation fogs the glass from the inside, and beyond it sits rows of winter greens, herbs, and stacked trays ready for spring planting.
She pauses there, pressing one sleeve-covered hand to the glass.
“You grow things?”
“Food tends to be useful.”
“Again with the romance stripping.”
“It’s a greenhouse.”
“It could be a little sanctuary of leafy hope.”
“Still a greenhouse.”
She pouts. “Do you ever wake up and think, today I shall be whimsical?”
“No.”
“That explains so much.” Her gaze sharpens. “Was that almost a smile?”
Maybe. “No.”
“Your face betrayed you.”
“My face did nothing.”
“Your face did several things. I can produce a report.”
“I’m sure it would be thorough.”
“With diagrams.”
“Naturally.”
We continue toward the west side of the property where the trees thin enough to reveal the lower field.
In spring, wildflowers cover it, not because I planted them but because nature insists on softening even the places men leave bare.
At the moment, it sits under a hard crust of frost, the long grass silvered beneath the falling snow.
“That line of posts marks the safe boundary,” I tell her. “You can walk anywhere from the lodge to here without triggering the inner alert.”
Her gaze follows the posts stretching towards the woods. “And beyond that?”
“Not alone.”
Her face changes so fast I almost miss it. There and gone. A flicker of something. Not fear exactly.
“I see.”
“You really don’t.” The words leave me before I’ve decided to say them.
She turns her head. “I don’t?”
“No. You’re hearing restriction. I’m explaining risk.”
A small smile appears. “Are you always this charming on guided tours, or am I special?”
“It’s reserved for when the guest is difficult.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re something.”
“Careful, James. That sounded perilously close to fondness.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Such a relief. I would hate for you to strain something.”