The sun angles harshly on the motel room door, obscuring the faded numbering scheme for the rooms. But this is the right one. Heavenly Ministries owns a stake in most of the establishments clustered around the nearest interstate exit to the property, and Motel Rapture is no exception. The woman at the front desk gave me the rundown about Delilah’s mother, including her dirty little habit.

I knock and wait. Shuffling sounds from inside, and then the door cracks open. Blue eyes meet mine, though they are bloodshot and sagging around the edges. “What do you want?”

“I’m from Heavenly Ministries.”

Something like a smile splits her face, though it turns into more of a grimace. She’s only 54 years old, but she looks more like 70. When she swings the door inward, I finally get a sense that she really is Delilah’s mother. The same slight frame, a certain way of carrying herself—not too stiff, but with her shoulders back.

“Make yourself comfortable.” She points to the double bed that’s still made, then wraps her pink bathrobe tighter around herself as she sits on the other mattress.

I keep my body language open, resting my elbows on my thighs as I lean forward. “I’d like to start by saying that your daughter is safe.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you. Your cult has gone and brainwashed her.”

“I can assure you that’s not the case.”

“Then why isn’t she here? Tell me that, smart guy.” She reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

“The program she’s in is an intensive, year-long immersion in biblical living.” I try to keep some sort of warmth in my tone, even if my words are robotic lies. “We take care to ensure that each of the program participants is given the chance to experience the Word of God firsthand, on their own terms, and within the safety of Heavenly Ministries.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me. Anything that needs that many words is bullshit.” She lights up, taking a deep pull, the wrinkles on her upper lip appearing like crevasses in the side of a prehistoric mountain. How did this woman create the otherworldly creature back at the Cloister?

I lean back, watching her watch me. “Let’s cut to the chase. What is it that you’re after?”

She blows smoke at me in a direct puff, but doesn’t have the lung capacity to finish the insult, and the smoke doesn’t make it all the way to me. “I want to know my daughter’s safe.”

“She is.”

“I want to see her. I need proof.”

I pull out my phone, tee up the video, and play it for her. Just hearing Delilah’s lilting voice soothes me. I want to see her, but I keep the phone held out as her mother scrutinizes every word.

“That’s her.” She waves the screen away, not even waiting until Delilah is done speaking.

“See? Safe just as I told you.”

She laughs and takes another long drag from her cigarette. I can actually see the flame eating away at it in record speed. Then she grabs another, lights it from the dying one, and blows a smoke plume to the ceiling.

“You think I don’t know my own daughter? The girl I nursed at my breast, the one I raised, the one I slept with in my arms?”

The one you let your husband prey on. I swallow my indignation; I have no right to it.

She continues, “I see her. She looks fine. But she doesn’t look right. Something in her eyes, the way she holds herself. You’ve done something to her.”

“She’s where she wants to be.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” She laughs, a raspy, sickly sound. “She’s exactly where she intended.”

“So you’ll leave this alone, then? No more flyers?” I pull the one from my pocket and toss it on the floor. I’ve already had two other Protectors scouring the city for the rest.

“That depends.”

Here it comes. I’ve known plenty of addicts. Her ploy is no more sophisticated than any other. I stare at her, waiting for the inevitable ask. Like every addict, she has no idea how far down the rabbit hole she’s gone—with the drugs or with me. A junkie from Lousiana with no ties except her most recent good-for-nothing boyfriend, she could disappear right this second and no one would care. I could wrap my hands around the crepe-like skin of her neck and squeeze. She wouldn’t be able to make a sound. I know right where to press, and how the blood vessels in her eyes will blow, and the way her body will tense and finally, finally go limp. And when I let go, the air that got trapped and festered inside her will come out in a death rattle. More blood on my hands. Another unwilling sacrifice to the Father of Fire. How the fuck did I get here?

“Are you even listening?”

I return my attention to Delilah’s very-much-alive mother. “No. Start over.”

“Asshole. I said you can keep my daughter there—” She raises a finger “—unharmed, and I won’t make a stink about it. But I’m going to need some funds to carry me through these months without her.”

There it is. Selling her daughter to the devil as long she gets her next fix. Maybe all parents are like her. My father certainly is.

“How much?”

She nibbles the end of her cigarette. “One hundred thousand ought to do it.”

I turn the number over in my mind. Is that what Delilah is worth? A measly sum. Thirty pieces of silver.

“I could get greedy, you know.” She shrugs, a piece of ash falling to her robe. “But I’m trying to keep this reasonable.”

I rise, suddenly feeling the need to get out of this room, away from this faint, profane shadow of Delilah. “Fifty-thousand, and you don’t set foot in this state again. Ever.”

“Seventy-five.” She puts out her cigarette.

“Sixty. Take it or leave it.”

She holds out a leathery hand. “Deal.”

I turn my back on her and stride to the door. “The money will be delivered within the hour. I want you across the state line before sundown.”

“I will be.” She follows me. “And one thing.”

“There are no more things.” I open the door and inhale the cool air on the catwalk.

“Don’t kill her.” Her voice softens. “Not like you did that other one.”

I still. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

“Fine, whatever you say. Just don’t kill my daughter.” It’s the only motherly thing she’s said, though her request sets the bar pretty low. “Promise me?”

“What is my promise worth?” I grip the railing as a pigeon lands a few feet away. “Should I knock another five thousand off your price?”

“No. We agreed on sixty.” She answers too quickly, and I’m disgusted with her all over again.

“Then I’ll do with your daughter whatever I please. Stay out of Alabama or face the consequences.” I turn and scowl at her.

She shrinks back into her room. “Please don’t kill her. Like you did Georgia.” She closes the door, and I hear the lock being thrown.

Georgia—the murdered Maiden. I eye the door. She must have done her research, reading about the scandal and connecting it to Heavenly, despite our heavy payoffs to the local police and media to keep it quiet. Fuck.

I could kick the door down, drag her out by the hair, and no one would say shit as I pulled her screaming down the stairs. But I don’t. Not because I have any care for her. She’s just another non-parent, someone who should have been trustworthy but turned out to be empty, rotten from the inside out.

Instead of taking vengeance on the woman, I keep walking away. It isn’t worth it, I tell myself. I refuse to believe I let her live so Delilah wouldn’t be needlessly hurt.

After all, hurting Delilah is my calling.