"Not gonna let him hurt your brother." He smooths her hair. "Pray for your father. Keep Elijah hidden and safe."

Stephens eyes Alyson through the half-open door. Brown dye dribbles down his forehead, staining his skin like mildew. The smell is acrid, toxic, strong enough to coat tongues. He listens to her pray, and hates-- --hates with a force that surprises even him. The drain gurgles, spitting up chunks of blood and greasy meat. Behind him the radiator moans like a curse. “Y’know,” says-- --Father-- --from the living room, “didn’t--I didn’t--force you to--” Stephens mumbles something about humility, combing the dye through his hair. With a steady hand he picks up the razor.

Good girl.

Good girl. I expect-- Expect-- Treat Father Smith with the respect due to a man of his stature. No less, no more.

What in Heaven’s name are the two of you doing?