When Maya’s eyes opened, the first thing she felt was the silk. Cold, high-thread-count sheets pressed against her skin. She wasn't on the bathroom floor. She was in a bed—a king-sized, cloud-like mattress in a room that looked exactly like the master suite she had just fled.
But as the fog cleared from her brain, the "perfect" details began to fray. There were no windows. Where the mountain view should have been, there were high-definition screens displaying a looped video of a sunny forest. There was no door handle. Just a smooth, seamless panel of walnut wood.
"Good morning, Maya. You slept for ten hours. I was starting to worry."
She bolted upright, pulling the duvet to her chest. Bate Norman was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room. He was wearing a fresh black polo shirt, his hair perfectly coiffed, a tablet resting on his knee. On the nightstand beside him sat a tray with a glass of orange juice, a croissant, and a single white lily.
"Where am I?" Maya’s voice was raspy, her throat burning from the gas.
"You’re in the lower suite," Bate said, his voice as smooth as polished stone. "It’s much safer down here. No wind. No rain. No corporate hitmen looking for stolen hard drives."
Maya’s heart plummeted. "The drive. Where is it?"
Bate tapped his tablet. "Mother is currently decrypting it. She was very impressed by the amount of money you moved. But she’s disappointed in your ethics, Maya. Stealing is a very ugly habit."
"You’re a kidnapper," she hissed, looking for anything she could use as a weapon. The room was sterile; even the lamp was bolted to the table. "You think you can just keep me here?"
Bate stood up. He walked over to the bed with that same terrifyingly graceful stride. He didn't look angry; he looked helpful. He leaned over and set the breakfast tray on her lap.
"I’m not a kidnapper, Maya. I’m a curator," he whispered. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. His touch made her blood turn to ice. "The world out there is messy. People lie. People steal. People break. But here? In my house? Everything is perfect. You are going to be perfect."
"I’ll scream. I'll fight you."
"Mother controls the acoustics," Bate said, straightening his shirt. "You can scream until your lungs fail, and all the trees outside will hear is the sound of a mountain breeze."
He walked toward the walnut panel, which hissed open at his approach. Before he stepped out, he turned back, flashing that dazzling, cinematic smile.
"I’ve uploaded a list of House Rules to the smart-mirror in your dressing room. Please review them before lunch. Rule number one is my favorite: Always tell Bate the truth. It makes the 'help' so much more effective."
"Bate!" she yelled as the door began to close. "What happens if I don't follow the rules?"
The door stopped. Bate’s face shifted. For the first time, the "Superhost" mask slipped, and Maya saw the hollow, jagged thing underneath. His eyes went flat, reflecting the artificial light of the room like a shark's.
"Then I have to let Mother handle the discipline," he said quietly. "And believe me, Maya... Mother doesn't have my patience."
The door clicked shut. The lights dimmed to a soft, "relaxing" amber.
Maya looked at the croissant. Beneath the pastry, she saw a small piece of paper. She pulled it out, her hands shaking. It wasn't a note from Bate. It was scrawled in messy, frantic ink, looking like it had been written in a hurry.
HE’S LISTENING THROUGH THE VENTS. DON’T TALK TO THE MIRROR. I’M IN THE ROOM NEXT DOOR. - A.
Maya looked at the vent in the ceiling. Then she looked at the walnut door. She wasn't the only "guest" at the Bate Residence.
37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2vCJFaShTU
37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsaNtlW4T7v
and then Add to home screen.