THAT CHILD'S GOT EVIL IN HER

The kettle on the stove had been heating for too long. Its metal body had gone from silver to a dull orange-red along the bottom edge, the water inside it approaching a violent boil that would never quite come. Faith rocked on her heels, her gaze fixed on it with an intensity that suggested she was seeing something else entirely—perhaps the crucifix still embedded in Madison's door, or Richard's face on the laptop screen, or something farther back, some original sin that had set all of this in motion.
 Three paper cups sat on the kitchen table, arranged in a perfect triangle like some arcane ritual setup. Grace sat behind them, her forehead glistening with perspiration. The small beads of sweat caught the fluorescent kitchen light and refracted it, making her skin appear almost phosphorescent. She didn't wipe it away.
 Hope entered cautiously, as though crossing into territory that had been mined. She took a seat at the table, glanced at Grace, then looked up at Faith, who remained transfixed by the kettle.
 The WHISTLE when it finally came was high and thin, almost human. Faith jerked as if waking from a trance and turned off the burner. She lifted the kettle—without a potholder, Madison would have noticed, though her hands showed no sign of pain—and poured steaming water into each of the paper cups.
 Grace looked down at her cup, then up at Faith, shaking her head with the particular brand of disappointment she had elevated to an art form. Paper cups. Not even proper mugs for tea. Her distaste for Faith’s obsessive compulsions as old as their relationship itself.
 Hope cleared her throat and made a subtle motion toward Grace, a silent plea to let it go. Grace ignored her.
 Without waiting for the tea to cool, Grace took a large gulp from her cup. The steam enveloped her face for a moment, and when it cleared, her eyes were locked on Hope with an intensity that made the younger woman shift uncomfortably in her seat.
 Hope shivered slightly and held her cup close to her face, letting the rising steam warm her skin.
 "It's about time we start calling this what it really is," Grace said finally, her voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
 "She's still young and overwhelmed by a modern world of unlimited information. I bet she's—" Hope stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Grace's lips moving in perfect synchronization with her words, a silent mockery that undermined them more effectively than any interruption could. "I'm serious. There's no filter anymore, and these kids are curious. Remember when we were—"
 Hope's voice trailed off as she watched Grace pick up a sugar cube, inspecting it with exaggerated care, as if searching for some inconsistency or flaw.
 "Remember when I was young?" Hope finished quietly.
 Faith looked up from her tea for the first time. "Oh, Hope, we're still waiting for you to grow up."
 Hope sat up straighter, tugging at the hem of her shirt as if proper appearances might salvage her dignity.
 "Young or old," Grace said, setting the sugar cube down without using it, "when you stray from the path, you lose the power to ward off evil. And that child..." She paused, letting the weight of what would come next settle over the table. "That child's got evil in her."
 The word hung in the air between them. Evil. No euphemisms, no clinical terms, no gentle circling of the issue. Just the oldest word for the oldest fear.
 "She says she's cramping," Hope offered, her voice softer now. "Maybe it's worth taking her for a check-up."
 Grace's face hardened into something ancient and immovable. "That's the dumbest thing you've said, yet. A doctor can't help with what plagues her."
 Faith stared into her tea as if divining something in its depths. "I want to believe it's just her age, hormones, and all... but there's something different about her. I know my daughter."
 "She's a teenage girl," Hope said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. "Have a doctor examine her. Or maybe a change of environment, getting her out of here, could help."
 Faith's head snapped up, eyes bright with sudden fury. "You think she's not good here? What, she should be back in the city? Back with her Father!?"
 "No. I didn't mean it like that. I..." Hope's defense withered under Faith's glare.
 "She doesn't need a doctor." Grace's voice cut through the tension with the finality of a guillotine blade.
 She reached across the table and firmly took Faith's hands in hers. Faith's fingers were limp, like something recently dead, but Grace gripped them firmly. "She needs you to be strong. She needs God!"
 Faith's face crumpled slightly. "I don't want to upset her."
 Grace stood so abruptly that her chair scraped against the linoleum with a sound like a scream. She looked down at Faith with an expression that mixed disgust and pity in equal measure.
 "You're weak with her like you were weak with him," Grace said, each word a precisely placed stone in a wall being built between them. "You took the roles of mother and wife, and therefore, you're also being weak with God. That's why this has come upon you."
 Grace gathered her purse and Bible from the counter with efficient movements. She moved toward the front door with the certainty of someone who knows they won't be stopped.
 "You need to get right with God, and seek redemption, by helping your daughter..." She paused at the threshold, framed in the doorway like a missionary about to enter hostile territory. "Before it's too late."
 She walked out, leaving the door wide open behind her—an invitation or a challenge, it wasn't clear which.
 "Hope, are you coming, or am I leaving you?" Grace's voice called from outside, already fading with distance.
 Hope jumped up as if pulled by an invisible string, nearly knocking over her cup of tea. She scurried toward the door, not looking back at Faith who remained seated, hands still extended across the table where Grace had left them.