Chapter 4

The house was silent after that. Peters was gone, fired and paid a large sum to ensure his silence. But his screams lingered in the air.

The brothers were now genuinely afraid of Jocelyn.

"She's faking it," Matthew insisted, pacing his office. "This is a performance. The chainsaw? It's all an act to scare us."

"An act?" Andrew shot back, his face pale. "Did you see her eyes, Matt? She wasn't acting. She's really, truly sick. And we made her this way."

The argument raged for days. Matthew was a man of logic and control. The idea that Jocelyn was a chaotic, unknowable force he couldn't manage was intolerable. He had to know the truth. He had to break through the act, if it was an act.

He devised a new test. One that was simple, public, and brutal.

The next morning at breakfast, a pot of bubbling cheese fondue was placed in the center of the table. It was a strange choice for breakfast, and the smell of hot cheese filled the dining room.

Stella was there, looking pale and nervous. She hadn't left her room much since the incident with Peters.

Matthew looked at Jocelyn, who was quietly eating a piece of dry toast.

"Jocelyn," he said, his voice casual. "Let's eat the fondue. With our hands."

Stella gasped. Andrew stared at Matthew in disbelief. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Matthew ignored him, his eyes locked on Jocelyn. This was the ultimate test. No sane person, faking or not, would deliberately burn themselves. If she refused, she was faking. If she complied... he didn't know what that would mean.

Jocelyn looked at the bubbling pot. She looked at Matthew's challenging gaze. Then she smiled, a pure, sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Okay, Matthew."

She reached out her hand, her fingers heading directly for the boiling cheese.

"Jocelyn, no!" Andrew yelled, lunging to stop her.

But Matthew was faster. He grabbed Andrew's arm, holding him back. "Let her," he commanded, his voice tight.

Jocelyn' s fingers dipped into the molten cheese. She didn't flinch. She didn't make a sound. Her expression remained placid, serene. She calmly retrieved a piece of bread from the pot, the cheese dripping from her blistering fingertips.

She turned to Matthew, her smile still in place, and carefully placed the piece of bread on his plate.

Then she dipped her fingers back into the pot, retrieved a piece of apple, and placed it on Andrew's plate.

She looked at her two shattered brothers, her eyes wide and innocent.

"Jocelyn is a good girl," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "She doesn't eat all by herself."

The dam broke.

Andrew let out a choked sob. He shoved Matthew aside and rushed to Jocelyn, grabbing her hand. The skin was red and blistering, the flesh already damaged. He wrapped it in a napkin, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Matthew just sat there, frozen. He stared at the piece of bread on his plate, then at Jocelyn's beatific, smiling face. He had been so sure, so certain. And he had been wrong. Horribly, monstrously wrong.

The monster wasn't Jocelyn. It was him.

Andrew rushed her to the hospital, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and horror. The foundation of his world had crumbled.