Chapter 3

On the third day, the security gate at the end of the long driveway whirred open.

Molly was back. She held a greasy paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other, already recording. She expected to find me pale and weak, a desperate animal clawing at the doors.

I met her at the front gate, which remained locked from the inside. I was not pale or weak. I felt powerful, my energy crackling under my skin.

"Oh, Hope, you poor thing," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy for her online audience. "I was so worried. I brought you some leftovers. I know you must be starving."

She held up the bag. The smell hit me even through the iron bars-the sour, sickening stench of spoiled food.

I looked from the bag to her phone, then back to her face. I smiled.

"You came all this way to bring me trash?" I asked.

Her fake smile faltered. "What? No, it's... it's just from a few days ago."

I reached through the bars. She flinched, but I wasn't aiming for her. I snatched a dirty, mud-caked gardening glove from a nearby planter.

Before she could scream, I shoved the filthy glove into her open mouth.

She gagged, her eyes wide with shock and disgust. I grabbed the paper bag, tore it open, and dumped the rotten, moldy contents onto the pristine gravel of the driveway. Maggots writhed in a piece of what might have been chicken.

"Is this the best you could do?" I asked, my voice calm. "You want to film me? Film this."

Just then, a black sedan pulled up behind her. Owen and Elyse got out, their faces arranged in masks of concern. Molly had clearly tipped them off, planning for them to arrive just in time to witness my pathetic gratitude.

Molly spat the glove out, tears of humiliation and rage in her eyes. "She attacked me! And she threw away the food I brought her!"

"We tried to call, the power must have knocked out the lines," Elyse said, a lie so blatant it was insulting. "We were so worried."

"Worried?" I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You tried to starve me. You locked me in here to die."

"That's a terrible accusation!" Owen boomed. "Your behavior is clearly the result of some deep-seated mental illness from your... poor upbringing. You're violent and unstable."

Mental illness. The words hung in the air. And in that moment, an idea, cold and brilliant, took shape in my mind. They wanted me to be crazy? Fine. I would be the craziest monster they had ever seen.

I let my shoulders slump. I looked at them, my eyes wide and wild. "You're right," I whispered, letting a tremor enter my voice. "There's something wrong with me. I have these... urges. Violent urges."

I looked past them, at Molly, who was now hiding behind her father. "It's her," I said, my voice rising. "She makes me want to do terrible things. You have to get her away from me. I can't control it!"

The Chadwicks exchanged a look. I could see the gears turning in their heads. A diagnosis. A medical explanation. It was the perfect tool. A way to control me, to explain away my behavior, and, if necessary, to have me locked away somewhere quietly.

"Don't worry, dear," Elyse said, her voice now syrupy sweet. "We'll get you help. We'll have you professionally evaluated."

They thought they were building my cage. They didn't realize they were handing me the key.