“Here we are,” I say, pushing a button to open the tall iron gates as I turn onto the cul-de-sac where my house is one of three, each divided by a heavy stone wall. I wonder what my neighbors have to hide behind theirs.

I pull up along the circular drive and park the car. I get out, then go to her side. She’s still strapped in, staring up at the huge stone structure with its intimidating pillars and oversized, hand-carved wooden front doors. I pull her door open and she jumps. I stand back and gesture for her to get out.

When she doesn’t move, I reach over her, push the button to release her seatbelt and take her arm to encourage her out. She’s pulling back, but thing is, there’s nowhere for her to go. And still, the moment I release her and turn to the front door, she takes off. She’s running back down the drive, back the way we came. Back to the now closed gates. They’re twelve feet tall. She’s not getting out.

But here’s the thing with mice. I don’t mind chasing them. Especially the pretty ones.

And so I do.

I chase my little mouse down the driveway, over the manicured lawn. Up the hill and toward the gates. I could overtake her easily, but I don’t, not yet. I like this.

Just before she reaches the border of the property, I speed up and a moment later, I tackle her to the ground. She lands with a hard thud. It knocks the wind out of her and my weight on top of hers doesn’t help her catch her breath.

I lean up on my elbows.

“Now look what you’ve done,” I say, my voice low. “Dirtied my coat. Your clothes.”

“Please don’t hurt me!” Her voice is loud, it cuts into the night.

I look at her face. Watch her struggle. I let her. Let her tire herself out.

The ground is cold, frozen with the temperatures we’ve been having. I get up on my knees, keep her trapped with my thighs on either side of her hips. When she tries to push me off, I take her wrists and drag her arms over her head, transfer them into one of mine as I lean in close to her.

“Are you ready to do as you’re told?” I ask.

She tries to pull free. Fails.

“Natalie? Are you ready to do as you’re told?”

“If I go in there, are you going to hurt me?”

“If I were going to hurt you, don’t you think I would have done it at the warehouse?”

She stops, considers that.

“Why bring you to my house? DNA and all?”

Her eyes widen at that.

“I’m kidding. Christ. And I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”