Ducking her head, the Sister looked as though she’d been struck, blue eyes watery with the harshness of the reporter’s tone. Her own voice was soft, tremulous, but she spoke with an underlying conviction that burned with earnest. “‘He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free…’ That’s Psalms 146:7.” Peeking up from beneath the curtain of blonde bangs, Mary had begun to wring her hands, turning in a fit of nervousness to gently pull the door closed. “I’m so sorry, Miss Winters… It’s my fault that you’re in here. I should never have agreed to let you in. I deserve whatever blame you cast on me.”
Jesus — this woman sure had a particular way of demeaning herself that rendered the young reporter completely flabbergasted. Harshness thrown aside, Lana never meant for her little angel to be left hurt and feeling like her good intentions didn’t count for nothing. It was her job ( as the one sane person under this unholy roof ) to keep her marbles together and not lose it at the tiniest sign of a storm approaching their way. “Hey…” Setting the rusty fork aside, she lifted herself off the bed and crossed the room in no less than three rushed steps; ample space to move was a privilege Lana could no longer afford. Both hands reached out to hold Mary’s cheeks, kindly forcing her to look away from the ground and straight into her dark eyes. “It’s not your fault, Sister. You did what I asked so it’s all on me… I did threaten you, remember? And god knows you were right to fear Jude’s wrath, that woman is dangerous.”