[She laughs, though it's strained; crass humor isn't really her thing.]

Which is why you're halfway to the door. I'll-- go back into my rooms. It's safer that way.

[She turns, brown curls bouncing and draws the door shut behind her. It melds seamlessly with the wall-- like she'd never been there. Penelope was as much a ghost of the house; felt over heard, heard over seen-- rarely glimpsed but always somewhere, trapped behind the walls.]

[The intercom clicks on again.]

What's our next step, Mr. Constantine?