Chapter 3

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Honora' s face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"If you' re so sick, then you should be grateful we' re willing to take you back," she said, her tone softening just enough to sound like a threat. "But there are conditions. You will come home, and you will apologize to Aloysius for worrying him."

"No."

The word was quiet, but it hung in the air between them like a solid wall.

Just then, his parents' car pulled up. They got out, their faces a mixture of annoyance and feigned concern.

"Jesse, stop being difficult," his father said. "Come home. We' ll take care of you, but you have to be good. You have to listen to Aloysius."

"I said no," Jesse repeated.

"What is wrong with you?" his mother cried. "After all we' ve done for you!"

Honora stepped forward. She looked at his pale face, the dark circles under his eyes. For the first time, she seemed to truly see how sick he was.

"Enough," she said, her voice sharp. She grabbed his arm. "You' re coming with us. Now."

Her grip was firm, but not as brutal as before. He was too weak to fight her. He let her lead him to the car and push him into the back seat.

The Kennedy mansion was just as he remembered it from the window: grand, opulent, and suffocating. Aloysius was waiting in the foyer, his eyes red-rimmed as if he' d been crying for hours.

The moment he saw Jesse, he let out a dramatic sob and stumbled backward. "He' s back! I' m so scared, Honora. He hates me."

"He doesn' t hate you, darling," Mrs. Kennedy cooed, rushing to Aloysius' s side. She glared at Jesse. "Now, Jesse. Kneel and apologize to your brother. Tell him you' re sorry for everything."

Jesse stood his ground. His legs felt weak, but his will was iron.

"I have nothing to apologize for." He looked directly at Aloysius. "He' s the one who has been living my life for eight years. He' s the one who got everything, while I got nothing."

A flash of triumph, quick and ugly, crossed Aloysius' s face before he hid it behind another sob.

"You see?" Aloysius wailed. "He' s still so cruel!"

Mr. Kennedy' s face turned purple with rage. He lunged at Jesse, grabbing his shoulders and trying to force him to his knees. "You will show respect in this house!"

Jesse' s knees buckled under the force, but before they could hit the marble floor, Honora stepped between them.

"Stop it, Dad," she said, her voice tight. "You' ll hurt him." She looked at Jesse, her expression a complex mask of anger and something else he couldn' t name. "No kneeling. Not today."

She pointed toward a narrow hallway. "Your room is down there. It used to be for the maids."

The message was clear. He was a servant in his own home.

Later that evening, Aloysius came to his small, bare room. He was holding a pile of old, worn-out clothes.

"I thought you might need these," Aloysius said, his voice dripping with false charity. "They don' t fit me anymore."

Jesse looked at the clothes, then back at Aloysius' s smug face. He took the pile and, without a word, threw it back at him. It hit Aloysius in the chest.

"Ouch!" Aloysius cried out, clutching his arm as if he' d been shot. "You hurt me!"

Honora was there in an instant, drawn by the sound. She saw Aloysius feigning injury, saw the clothes on the floor, and her face hardened into a familiar mask of fury.

She grabbed a leather belt that was hanging on a hook by the door.

"I warned you to behave," she seethed, and she brought the belt down across Jesse' s back.

Once, twice, three times. The leather cracked against his thin shirt. Jesse braced for the searing pain.

But it didn' t come.

His back was being hit, he knew that logically, but all he felt was a dull, distant pressure. The tumor was growing, pressing on his spinal cord, severing the lines of communication between his body and his brain. He was going numb.

He didn' t cry out. He didn' t even flinch. He just stood there, looking at her with empty eyes.

His lack of reaction confused her. She stopped, the belt held in mid-air. "Why aren' t you crying?" she demanded.

He didn' t answer.

"I' m warning you, Jesse," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Don' t push me." She threw the belt on the floor and pulled a whimpering Aloysius out of the room.

Alone, Jesse lifted his shirt and looked at the red welts in the small, cracked mirror. He couldn' t feel them, but he could see them. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold room.

He woke up hours later, burning with fever. His body was drenched in sweat. Through the haze of his delirium, he saw a figure sitting by his bed, dabbing his forehead with a cool, wet cloth.

It was Honora. Her face was pale in the dim light, her expression unguarded and full of a pain that mirrored his own.

"Honora," he rasped.

She flinched, as if startled by his voice.

"Just let me go," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Let me go somewhere quiet. Let me die alone."

The brief flicker of compassion in her eyes was extinguished, replaced by a fierce, desperate anger.

"No!" she snapped, her voice harsh. "You can' t die. Who will atone for what you did? Aloysius needs you to pay for your sins!"

She stood up and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Jesse closed his eyes. He had his answer. There would be no escape. Not while he was alive.