Double Agent

○ five ○

My eyes creak open rustily. Bright light floods the room.

Bracing myself, I sit up from my undainty position on the couch. The house looks different now in the sunlight compared to its nighttime hedonistic darkness. The furniture gleams, and the air feels lighter. I'm not sure what to do. I swallow the lump in my throat and cautiously explore the house. A six seater dining table stands adjacent to a dark oak cabinet, and I waltz past that into an open concept kitchen. My throat is parched. As I pass by the counter, I find a note on the white granite.

'Ask ECHA.'

I rummage through a few cupboards before I find the glasses, and get some water from the dispenser fridge.

Unsure, I call out, "ECHA?"

"Yes, miss?" the robotic answer comes immediately.

"Um, what do I do?"

"Whatever you'd like, miss."

That's odd. I've never been allowed to do much. I blink heavily, wiping the sleep from my face.

I feel horrible and dirty.

"ECHA, how do I take a shower?"

"Mr Ford has laid things for you in your room."

"Sorry, where is my room?"

"Up the stairs, through the corridor, turn left at the waiting space and go to the second door."

"Thank you, ECHA."

"My apologies, miss. ECHA's database does not recognise that word. Would you like ECHA to add that word to the internal dictionary?"

"Yes please. It means that I'm grateful for ECHA's help."

"Okay, miss, Updated. Have a nice day."

I ignore my awkward politeness to a virtual assistant, and follow her instructions, trudging up the spiral staircase. The walk through a short corridor leads to a window, another couch and table, and two doors to the left of that, is my room. It's the last room.

It's big. A large grey queen bed takes up the middle of the room. To my left, bright bay windows accompany a black cushioned seat, the tops of the tall New York buildings watching me suspiciously. The bedsheets are white, and four fluffy accented throw pillows pile on top of the main two sleep pillows. The room is enormous and lovely. It feels too much for me to have. The back of the room sports a door, and when I open it, I find my own bathroom.

I bite my lip as I stand in front of the bed, where I find a folded white towel, a shirt, and a pair of sweats. When I open the shirt, it's large. Same with the pants. I'm quite tall, but the clothes would still drown me.

"ECHA?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Are these Mr Ford's clothes?"

"Yes. Sir plans to arrange commodities with you tonight."

'Are you listening 24/7?"

"ECHA does not listen until ECHA is called."

"Can you see?"

"ECHA does not possess any occular capabilities."

"Thank you, ECHA."

What a relief.

I resign myself to the shower. The water is warm and a few simple soaps have been laid out, along with a spare toothbrush and toothpaste. The clothes smell exactly like him. They're big and comfortable, but I still feel awkward and weird wearing a random guy's clothes.

I handwash my clothes, leaving them to dry on one of the bathroom racks, praying my undergarments dry in time so I don't have to keep commando. Then, I pause, because for the first time in a long time I have nothing to do. I haven't brought anything with me, and I don't want to touch anything else in this expensive house.

After a few moments, I think of something else.

Slowly, deliberately, I make my way to the front of the house, where I try the door. It's locked. I jiggle it. I don't know if it's possible, but the door seems to get more locked.

"ECHA , how do I unlock the door?"

"Mr Ford has instructed me to not let you out."

"Damn it."

I'm not really sure why I want to leave. I don't have anywhere to go, but I don't like the idea of waiting like a sitting duck while the entire Secret Service figures out how to kill me without feeling too bad, or worse, keep me in this boring ass house. I need to leave. The Cosa Nostra will severely injure me if they find me, but they won't kill me. They'll be looking for me. A kidnapped mafia princess does not look good on their resume. If I get caught, I can convince them of my loyalty. Then maybe, just maybe, they might have some mercy. I want freedom, not... whatever this is.

I still can't believe how much has happened in one night. I process the situation like a haze, not quite believing anything. In all honesty, I might've been grateful if anyone else but the secret service kidnapped me because I'd been meaning to leave for a long time. But the Secret Service can't keep me alive. They know who I am, and I have no proof that I won't screw them over other than my word. They're trained for situations like this.

I should feel more afraid, that every minute I come closer to death. But I don't. Maybe it's because I've grown up around this fear. Maybe it's because I've watched people I care about bleed out until their lungs crash.

I try a few windows. The latches are all locked. We might be high up, but I've been climbing buildings since I was little. The fear of stepping onto an exposed ledge is just a dull throb now. Back in the mafia, that's how I escaped from the main buildings to the peripheral ones if my mum was looking for me, or if there was danger nearby.

I try the fire escape. Locked. The contemplation if I'm ballsy enough to break something in this man's house goes smoothly. If I escape I'll never see him again.

I grab the nearest metal thing I see, a kettle, and ram it into the lock of the fire escape. It doesn't give way. I do it a couple more times until the kettle dents and the wood of the fire escape chips. That's fucking stupid. What if there was an actual fire? On the way, I snag a knife from one of his drawers and put it into my shoe. I feel unsafe without one.

Giving up on that, I walk up the stairs. The windows of my room are locked, so I try to break them with a small metal rod I found. The glass cracks, but doesn't break. No amount of hitting, pushing, kicking or slamming makes the glass give way.

It's just my luck to come across a balcony lounge. But it's locked again. This one doesn't seem to be as sturdy as the others, so I kick at the door. The door breaks at the hinge. I cringe, but at this point figure out that getting caught would be way worse, so all the more I need to leave.

I hop over the glass and stand on the ledge, inching to the side. When I reach a wider ledge, I walk across the circumference to reach the fire escape. There I take the steps two at a time, ducking past the low hanging top stairs. I try my best to fit in. It's obvious all the residents are wealthy, and most of them would not be caught in unironed clothes on a Tuesday. I keep my head up, pretending to mind my business. My goal is to find a bus stop. I unscrew my necklace and empty the vial out into my hand. A very folded piece of paper falls out, and I stretch it out. A hundred dollar bill. One of the maids told me they always kept them on hand in case they were fired. The mafia never cared about who they fired. They had to find an emergency plan, and I caught on.

I can feel the anxiety humming in my veins. It's ridiculous because by the time he realises, I'll be far away.

The air sings behind me.

Startled, I turn around, only to find no one.

I stare at the pristine sidewalk for a moment, ears tuned despite the faint thudding of my heart.

Footsteps to my left.

I must be going crazy. Shaking my head, I continue on my journey, huffing.

I don't get far.