Chapter 2

Later that night, Stella came to Jocelyn's room, a large, airy space that had been hers for only a few weeks before she was sent away.

"I brought you a smoothie," Stella said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "A real welcome home present."

She "tripped" on the edge of the rug, and the thick, purple smoothie splattered all over Jocelyn's simple white dress.

"Oh, I'm so clumsy!" Stella gasped.

Jocelyn didn't react. She just stood there, dripping.

Stella' s eyes darted around the room, landing on a cheap, wooden music box on the nightstand. It was the only gift her brothers had ever given her, a half-hearted apology after a particularly bad fight.

"This old thing? It's so dusty," Stella said, picking it up. She walked to the trash can and dropped it in with a clatter.

Still, Jocelyn said nothing.

Stella's frustration grew. She needed a reaction. She grabbed the only framed photo in the room, a picture of a laughing baby Jocelyn with their deceased parents.

"This doesn't even look like you," Stella sneered, and her hand moved to smash it.

This time, Jocelyn moved. She shot her hand out and grabbed Stella's wrist, her grip like iron.

"Let go of me!" Stella shrieked, her act beginning. "You're hurting me!"

She started screaming for her brothers, her voice filled with terror. "Matthew! Andrew! Help! She's going crazy!"

She wrenched her arm free and smashed the photo frame against the wall herself.

The brothers burst into the room to find Stella sobbing, the broken frame on the floor, and Jocelyn standing perfectly still, her face a blank mask.

"She attacked me!" Stella cried, pointing a trembling finger. "She went into a rage and destroyed everything!"

Matthew' s face was a thundercloud. He took a step toward Jocelyn, his hands clenched. "What the hell did you do?"

Jocelyn looked at him, her eyes eerily calm. She spoke in a flat, clinical tone.

"She told me to hit her."

Andrew stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Her words said 'help,' but her eyes said 'hit me.' So I would get in trouble," Jocelyn explained, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. She then reached into the pocket of her ruined dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was her discharge summary from the psychiatric facility.

She held it out. "I have the personality of a mental patient. It says so right here. I swear I'm not lying."

The brothers were stunned into silence. Her explanation was insane, yet delivered with such unnerving conviction that it stopped them cold. Was this madness, or a bizarre form of logic they couldn't comprehend?

Matthew, ever the pragmatist, decided to test her. His voice was cold steel.

"You're right. You're sick. You don't belong in a room like this." He pointed to the door. "From now on, you'll sleep in the servant's quarters. In the basement."

Andrew started to protest, but Matthew shot him a look that silenced him.

Stella watched, a triumphant smirk hidden behind her look of fear.

Jocelyn simply nodded. "Okay."

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, heading for the basement stairs as if she were going to her own bedroom.

Matthew was taken aback by her instant compliance. He followed her down to the small, damp room in the basement. It was little more than a cell with a cot.

He watched her sit on the edge of the thin mattress. Then, he turned to the head orderly, a cruel man named Peters who had worked for the family for years and enjoyed his role as Stella' s enforcer.

"The bedding," Matthew ordered. "It looks too dry."

Peters, understanding immediately, grabbed a bucket of cold water and doused the thin mattress and single blanket until they were soaking wet.

Matthew turned back to Jocelyn, his eyes hard, waiting for the explosion, for the defiance. "Sleep."

Jocelyn looked at the wet bed. Then she lay down on it, pulling the sopping blanket over her body. She closed her eyes and, within seconds, her breathing evened out, as if she had fallen instantly asleep.

Matthew stared, a profound sense of unease creeping over him. He had expected a fight, tears, anything but this. This absolute, unnerving obedience was more disturbing than any rage she had ever shown. He had wanted to break her, but he felt like he was the one who was cracking.