Chapter 3

They renamed me "Andrew."

The next ten years were a masterclass in deception. I was the perfect son the Bentons never had. I was docile, hardworking, and simple-minded. I never complained. I did every chore without question, from mucking out the pigsty to repairing the fences.

My primary role, however, was to be a companion to Molly.

Molly was the reason they' d bought a boy in the first place. She was a teenager now, still non-verbal, with a mind that saw the world differently. The family treated her as a burden, a thing to be managed.

I treated her with kindness.

I learned her silent language-the flick of her eyes, the twitch of her fingers. I brought her wildflowers from the woods. I protected her from the casual cruelty of her uncles. When they would get drunk and mean, I would lead her away to the barn, where we' d sit with the animals until they passed out.

In return, she became my shield.

Molly grew deeply attached to me. If one of the uncles raised a hand to me, she would let out a piercing shriek that brought her father running. Mr. Benton, for all his harshness, didn't like his daughter upset. So they left me alone.

Her attachment gave me leverage. She was the one who, through a series of gestures and stubborn refusals to eat, convinced her father to let me get a GED. It was a correspondence course, books and papers delivered by a mailman who never came past the main gate.

The Bentons saw it as a harmless way to keep me and Molly occupied.

I saw it as my arsenal.

I devoured the books, especially the science texts. I learned about chemistry. I studied the agricultural supplies stored in the barn. I identified a common pesticide, a potent organophosphate. It was a slow-acting poison, easily mistaken for a severe case of food poisoning if you didn't know what to look for.

I spent a decade cultivating their trust, playing the role of a simple, loyal servant. I was "Andrew," the good boy. I was Molly' s protector. They thought they had broken me, molded me into one of them.

They had no idea they were nurturing the instrument of their own destruction.

The day I turned eighteen, they decided it was time. Time for the "wedding." My eighteenth birthday was the day I knew, from my past life, that the authorities would finally track me down. The pieces were all moving into place.

They prepared a feast. A whole roasted pig, jugs of moonshine. It was a celebration. They were celebrating the final step in my enslavement.

I smiled and played my part.

"I'm so happy to finally be a real part of the family," I told Mrs. Benton, who was bustling around the kitchen.

She patted my cheek, her eyes glistening with a strange mix of pride and pity. "You're a good boy, Andrew. You'll be good to our Molly."

As the family gathered around the long wooden table, I helped pour the drinks. My movements were calm and precise. A few odorless, colorless drops in each cup. One for Mr. Benton. One for his wife. One for each of the brutish uncles.

None for me. None for Molly. And none for the two women locked in the shed, whose tormented cries had become a part of the compound's daily sounds.

We raised our cups.

"To family," Mr. Benton declared, his voice booming.

I drank with them, my cup filled only with water.

And I waited for the screaming to start.