What Happened To Carla?

What Happened To Carla?
Morning light leaked weakly through the narrow cell window, thin and gray. The air still held the overnight chill and the ever-present prison smells—industrial soap and old metal. Lucy had already straightened her thin mattress and folded the scratchy blanket with unusual care. She stood facing the upper bunk where Merida sat watching her.

“This is it,” Lucy said quietly. Her voice was steady but low. “I don’t know if ever I’ll see you again after today.”

Merida leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Then don’t waste the chance. You get out, you stay out, and you do what you came here to survive for. Clear your name. Make them pay for what they did to you. Don’t look back at these walls like they still own a piece of you.”

Lucy swallowed. “I’m going to miss you. You know that, right? You’re the only reason I didn’t lose my mind in here.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Merida answered without softness. “Doesn’t change the fact that you have to go. This place will grind you down if you stay. You’ve seen what happens to people who wait too long for justice that never comes.”

Lucy nodded once, the decision already made hours ago but still heavy in her chest. “Thank you. For being my friend when everyone else was against me. For watching my back. For everything.”

“Just don’t die out there,” Merida said. “That would seriously piss me off.”

The cell doors along the tier began to open with the usual metallic clatter and shouted orders. The paid-off guard appeared in their doorway and barked Lucy’s name, telling her she was on kitchen duty. Lucy gave Merida one last look, then followed him out into the corridor without another word.

In the kitchen, the air was warmer and thicker, heavy with the smell of industrial cleaner, leftover grease, and boiling water. Lucy was handed a yellow bucket and a worn rag and told to scrub the floors. She dropped to her knees and began working in long, even strokes, the rough concrete biting through her pants. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked to the large wall clock above the serving line.

The current time on it was nine-thirty. Aware that the truck would be leaving by ten, she was on her toes, eager to make sure she didn't miss the window of opportunity. She kept moving—floors first, then the lower cupboards—keeping her head down and her body language ordinary.

The minutes stretched. Other kitchen workers moved around her with trays and pots, their voices a low background murmur. At nine fifty-five, she decided the window was open. She set the rag aside, stood, and moved deeper into the kitchen as if looking for more supplies. A different guard walked past the open doorway. Lucy slipped behind a tall stack of plastic crates until the footsteps faded, then went straight to the rear door that led to the loading area.

The handle turned under her hand. The door opened with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. Usually, that door was locked, but today it was open, which meant freedom was only a few minutes away for her.

Outside, the delivery truck sat with its engine already idling, exhaust drifting in the cool morning air. The driver climbed into the cab and shut the door. Lucy moved quickly and low across the short stretch of concrete, slid underneath the chassis, and wedged herself into the narrow space between the frame and the undercarriage, pulling her limbs in tight until she was fully concealed in shadow.

The truck rolled forward into the main yard and stopped at the heavy gates. Boots approached. Guards opened the rear cargo doors and checked the interior. One of them dropped to a knee and swept a flashlight under the vehicle in slow arcs. The beam passed close enough that Lucy could see the dust motes floating in it. She held her breath, every muscle locked, the metal above her cold against her back. After several long seconds, the guard stood up and called out.

“Clear.”

The gates swung open with a low mechanical groan. The truck pulled out, accelerated, and carried Lucy away from the prison walls toward the open road and whatever waited beyond.

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.

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At the Rossi mansion, the morning light was stronger, cutting pale rectangles across the floor of Carolina’s private bedroom. She sat at her desk with the laptop open, the screen casting a cold glow on her face. The usual stack of reports waited, but her attention kept drifting. She picked up her phone and called Carla. The line rang through to voicemail. She ended the call, waited thirty seconds, and tried again. Same result.

A faint line of worry settled between her brows. She called one of the house guards into the room. The man entered and stood at attention.

“Did Carla return last night?” Carolina asked. Her voice was calm, but the edge underneath it was unmistakable.

“No, my Queen. She never came back to the estate.”

Carolina’s fingers tightened slightly around the phone. “This is very unlike her. I think something must have happened to her. Can we track her cell phone? And the car she left in yesterday?”

“Yes. Both can be tracked.”

“Then do it. Take two more men with you. Find her. I want a report the moment you have anything.”

The guard hesitated at the door, clearly weighing whether to add more. “When she left yesterday evening, she wasn’t alone, my Queen. Lancelot went with her. He returned later that night. She did not.”

Carolina absorbed the information in silence for several seconds. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of the laptop fan. Finally, she gave a short nod.

“Thank you for the information. You’re dismissed. Find her.”

The guard left and closed the door quietly behind him. Carolina remained still in her chair, staring at the dark screen of her phone, turning over the possibilities without yet reaching any conclusion.

She would wait for the men to return with answers before she decided what the absence of her most trusted bodyguard actually meant.