“But the others, they wanted to. I saw it in their eyes, those pious little hypocrites. Every last one of them.” She was breathing hard, as if she’d walked up fifty flights of steps, her rage seeping through her blood. The fingers around Charity’s wrist gripped harder. “All of those pretty little girls who had all the advantages, who had been adopted to homes . . . with . . . with parents. And brothers and sisters.” She was nearly panting with her rage. “They shared Christmas Eves with the grandmothers who baked apple pies and filled their stockings with hand-knit caps and dollies and little tins of chocolate,” she said bitterly, the girl always left behind. “They believed in Santa Claus and had siblings to fight and play with, boyfriends in high school. They had crushes and friendship rings and . . . and some of them were cheerleaders or athletes before going to college with men meant to be their husbands.” She was spewing her anger, nearly choking on the unfairness of it all. Her fingers clenched so tightly Charity cried out, but Devota, in her rage, didn’t notice, didn’t care. She was reliving all the injustices thrust upon her. “They had first kisses and first loves, and they wrote in diaries. . . .” She glanced at Valerie. “Oh, yes, they wrote all their lurid thoughts in diaries. All their sinful acts recounted and detailed . . .”

Charity saw her daughter wince, and for the first time the gun wobbled, if only just a bit.

“You blame the girls who were adopted?” Valerie whispered, disbelieving.

Why didn’t Valerie leave? Charity thought desperately. Val could just run away, hide in the dark and save herself. But staying here, arguing with Devota, was of no use. She would only end up getting herself killed. “You should go,” Charity said, trying to hold her daughter’s eyes. “Quickly . . .”

Valerie glared at Devota, moved a little to the left but didn’t turn tail. “The others were innocent.”

“Innocent?” Devota repeated in revulsion. “Those idiots? They didn’t know the meaning of the word! Only when they’d had their fill of their normal lives, when their parents or a boyfriend or life didn’t give them what they wanted did they come running back, crying out that they wanted to be nuns. To be pure of spirit. To become brides of Christ!”

She squeezed Charity. “And you took them in, didn’t you, Reverend Mother? Every last pathetic one of them, especially your pets, those who came from St. Elsinore’s. You gave them a new life, instruction, and showed them the way, but all the while you were a scheming, lying fraud! A whore who slept with a married man, bore him a child and hid it all!”

“No,” Charity squeaked, feeling blood slide beneath her collar. Please, Valerie, leave. Leave now! She tried to stall. “I believe—”