She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Well, let him be honest. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. She used to lock Jordan and Josiah in the closet when they were toddlers. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. It was impulsive and natural.
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