Chapter 4

Back at the cabin, Clara was humming, examining a loose floorboard.

"Find any hidden treasure?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Just contemplating escape routes," she said cheerfully. "This place is a deathtrap. Structurally unsound. You have terrible taste in hideouts."

She still had her phone. She could have called the police a dozen times while I was gone.

"Why haven't you?" I asked, the question escaping before I could stop it.

She looked up, her blue eyes surprisingly serious. "And go back to what? The gilded cage? The endless parade of doctors and debutante balls? At least this is... different."

A beat of silence.

"Besides," she added, a mischievous glint returning, "you haven't actually hurt me. You're more like a stressed-out, morally conflicted babysitter than a hardened criminal. It's almost endearing."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

"I need my medication," she announced suddenly. "The good stuff. And some actual clothes. This dress is couture, darling, not exactly suitable for rustic living."

"What?"

"My penthouse. We need to go. I need my Bipolar meds, the ones that actually work, not the placebos my father' s quacks keep prescribing. And some toiletries. And maybe my silk pajamas. You wouldn't want me to be uncomfortable, would you?"

The idea was insane. Taking my hostage back to her multi-million dollar penthouse in the city.

"No," I said firmly.

"Oh, come on," she wheedled. "It'll be an adventure. And if I don't get my proper medication, things could get... messy. For both of us. Trust me on this." She tapped her temple. "This brain? High maintenance."

She had a point about the medication. Her file mentioned the severity of her Bipolar I, the need for consistent treatment. Her current lucidity felt fragile.

Against my better judgment, I found myself agreeing.

The trip back to the city was surreal. Clara directed me to her underground parking, then up a private elevator. Her penthouse was palatial, all glass and steel and minimalist art. It screamed money.

She moved through it with an air of casual indifference, grabbing a pre-packed designer duffel bag. "My emergency 'mental health crisis' go-bag," she explained. "Always prepared."

She also grabbed a bottle of what looked like very expensive prescription pills.

I was a nervous wreck, expecting SWAT teams at any moment. She seemed completely unfazed.

She could have screamed, run, alerted a doorman. She did none of those things.

Back in the car, heading towards the remote cabin again, she said, "You know, you could have just left me there."

"I considered it," I admitted.

"But you didn't." She smiled faintly. "Curious."

We spent the next few days in a strange routine. I' d try to figure out the ransom logistics, which were now five million times more complicated. Clara would read, or sketch in a notebook she' d brought, or offer unsolicited advice on my "kidnapping technique."

"You should really invest in better rope," she'd say, holding up her easily escapable bonds. "And maybe some soundproofing. Your brooding monologues are audible from the outhouse."

Sometimes, she' d be quiet for hours, staring out the window with a profound sadness in her eyes that made my chest ache. In those moments, she looked incredibly fragile.

Then, she' d snap back with some darkly humorous comment.

One evening, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it. "Dr. Thorne," she said. "My psychiatrist. The only one who isn't a complete idiot."

She didn't answer it.

"She knows I'm... prone to disappearing acts when I'm off my meds or on the verge of an episode," Clara explained, her voice carefully neutral. "She probably thinks I'm mid-manic flight to Ibiza."

The more I learned, the less I understood, and the more complicated this whole mess became.