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I’ve spent my life with, and around, levels of money that border on obscene, heretical, and unethical—but a detached house ten minutes’ drive from the White House is a kind of filthy rich that makes even my spoiled ass hesitate.
An American flag snaps in the wind, and a flock of political signs for extreme far-right candidates sit crammed in a tiny front yard. One reads MAKE AMERICA BELIEVE AGAIN. Beside that, PRO-LIFE PRO-GOD PRO-AMERICA PRO-FREEDOM is coming loose from its place in the dirt.
Felicity stands on the porch in their Winthrop uniform and gold cross necklace.
I say, in reference to the signs, “Are you fucking kidding me.”
“I know,” Felicity says. “What happened to your face?”
There’s no energy left to lie or deflect, so: “Mom.”
Felicity winces. “Jesus.”
I stare at the signs. The one closest to the stairs proclaims PRAY FOR OUR COUNTRY. “Don’t bring him into this,” I say.
“Are you coming in?”
Despite the fact that, a few days ago, I would’ve pulled out one of my teeth with pliers before stepping foot into Felicity Keating’s house, I trudge up the stairs.
Felicity ducks close to my shoulder as they show me inside.
“I said we’re working on a project together,” they murmur. “So watch your ass.”
The house contains no evidence of human habitation. No shoes or backpacks in the entryway, no rumpled pillows on the couch, no books or remotes or phone chargers. Combined with the stained-glass cross in the foyer and the giant painting of Jesus in the grand stairwell, it reminds me more of a sterile megachurch than a place anyone would actually live.
And as soon as the door shuts, a voice calls from the bowels of this awful place: “Felicity, is your classmate here?”
Felicity grimaces. “Yes, Mrs. Keating.”
A woman that is Republican down to her dusty off-color foundation and preacher’s-wife dress clicks menacingly into view. Heels, in the house, at almost five in the afternoon, should be a war crime. Combined with her pearl necklace and veneers, the full far-right lobbyist combo, every cell in my body curdles with disgust.
She’s also … weirdly familiar.
“Well, hello,” Mrs. Keating says, pointedly looking me up and down. “A pleasure to meet you. How kind of you to agree to help Felicity with her project. While you’re inside these four walls, we kindly request that you do not take the Lord’s name in vain—only consume approved movies, TV shows, or music—and dinner is at six if you would like to join, but the Lord’s Prayer is mandatory, and please use some makeup to cover that”—she gestures to her cheek—”that mark, if you do. Do you have a change of clothes?”
By the time I realize it’s my turn to reply, her words have turned into complete mush.
I manage, “No. Sorry.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Keating sighs. “How unfortunate.”
Felicity flashes a wavering smile and takes my wrist, dragging me toward the stairs. “It won’t happen again, I promise. Thank you!”
They’re saying something else—something that sounds like I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you—but I don’t hear them. I’ve zeroed in on a framed family portrait on the landing. It’s of three people. The woman from downstairs a few years younger, some blond guy in his early twenties, and a balding man whose face cuts through the brain fog in an instant.
“Wait,” I say as Felicity takes me up a second flight of stairs to the third floor. “Wait. You—”
Felicity Keating was adopted by the Keatings.
The old man in the portrait is Eric Keating, executive vice president of the Columbia Christian Counsel. A big-money Christian nationalist lobbying group-slash–think tank–slash-whatever the fuck, obsessed with bathroom bills and antiabortion laws. They’ve worked with the Heritage Foundation. They love the Heritage Foundation.
At least Dad was only in it for the money. The Keatings are in it to spread the word of the Lord.
No wonder Felicity is a fucking wreck.
Felicity only says, “Yeah, that’s them,” and they lead me into their room.
Felicity’s room is a home décor catalog entry that they’ve done their best to wreck. Trash and textbooks scattered across an expensive vanity set; dirty clothes overflowing from a designer hamper; a chandelier throwing speckled light across a True Crime Club poster Scotch-taped to the wall. The only saving grace is the balcony, offering a beautiful view that happens to include the distant spike of the Washington Monument.
