Chapter 3: The Devil's Hymnals

Sunday morning arrived with deceptive serenity. Golden autumn light streamed through the kitchen windows as Elara sat at her laptop, surrounded by the digital carnage of her destroyed marriage. She'd been awake since four AM, fueled by rage and dark coffee, perfecting her masterpiece.

The plan had crystallized sometime around midnight, born from equal parts fury and inspiration. Agnes Vance wanted to play the role of saintly grandmother, wounded by her vindictive daughter-in-law? Fine. But saints, as Elara well knew, cast very long shadows.

"Mom?" Lily appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. "Are you still working on... whatever you were working on last night?"

"Just finishing up, baby." Elara minimized her design program with practiced casualness. She'd learned to hide her work—these past months had taught her that her daughters had enough trauma without witnessing their mother's methodical planning of revenge.

Maya emerged from behind her sister, already dressed and alert despite the early hour. "So what's the plan? You said we were going to tell the truth, but those people aren't exactly interested in facts."

Elara stood, stretching muscles that had been cramped over her laptop for hours. "You're right. Facts are easy to dismiss, especially when they're inconvenient. But spectacle?" She smiled, and something in that expression made both girls lean forward with interest. "Spectacle is impossible to ignore."

The print shop didn't open until ten AM on Sundays, but Elara had called in a favor. Marcus Rivera, who owned Rivera's Quick Print, had done architectural renderings for her firm for years. More importantly, his own divorce had been messy enough that he understood the particular desperation of protecting one's children from toxic family members.

"Elara, what the hell are you planning?" Marcus asked as he unlocked the shop's front door. He was a compact man in his fifties with ink-stained fingers and knowing eyes. "You sounded... intense on the phone."

"Justice," she said simply, hefting her laptop bag and a box of supplies she'd gathered from her home office. "I need your help creating something very specific."

Inside, surrounded by the familiar smells of toner and binding glue, Elara spread her materials across Marcus's largest work table. She'd brought paper samples—high-quality cardstock in deep burgundy, the exact shade used by Saint Matthew's Lutheran Church for their official materials. She'd also brought their logo, downloaded from their website, and a font sample that matched their traditional songbooks perfectly.

"Jesus," Marcus whistled as he examined her mockups. "You want me to help you create fake church hymnals?"

"Not fake," Elara corrected. "Alternative. Everything inside will be completely truthful. Think of it as... a different kind of worship material."

She opened her laptop and showed him the layout she'd been perfecting since midnight. The cover was flawless—burgundy cardstock with gold lettering that read "Saint Matthew's Lutheran Church" in the familiar Gothic font. Below that, in smaller text: "The Sinner's Songbook: A Collection of Testimonies."

"You're insane," Marcus said, but he was grinning. "Completely, brilliantly insane. Show me what goes inside."

The interior was Elara's masterpiece of careful curation. She'd organized David's most damning text messages with Rebecca like hymnal verses, complete with fake song titles: "Blessed Are the Adulterers," "Amazing Lies," "How Great Thou Art (In Bed)." Each page featured high-resolution screenshots of their sexts, their plans to meet in the family home, their cruel jokes about Elara's desperate attempts to save her marriage.

But the real genius was in the final section: "Family Values," featuring Agnes and Harold's most vicious messages about their own granddaughters. Their words about Maya and Lily being "bastards," their schemes to gain custody for financial benefit, their dismissal of the girls' trauma as mere "dramatics."

"This is nuclear," Marcus said, scrolling through the pages. "You realize this will destroy them completely?"

"Good." Elara's voice was steady, emotionless. "They destroyed my daughters' peace of mind yesterday. Turnabout is fair play."

Marcus studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "How many copies do you need?"

"Fifty should be sufficient. Saint Matthew's has about forty regular families, plus visitors." Elara had done her research, studying the church's bulletin archives and social media posts to understand their congregation size and Sunday service patterns.

The printing took two hours. Marcus worked with professional efficiency, but Elara could see him fighting grins as each page emerged from the high-resolution printer. The binding was perfect—spiral-bound with clear protective covers, identical to the church's regular songbooks except for the slightly different title.

"You know," Marcus said as he stacked the finished products in a neat pile, "my ex-mother-in-law tried to get custody of my kids too. Said I was unfit because I worked too much." He handed her the box of completed hymnals with something like reverence. "I wish I'd had the balls to do something like this."

"It's not about balls," Elara said quietly, testing the weight of the box. "It's about claws. Sometimes you have to choose between being a lady and being a mother."

The drive to Saint Matthew's Lutheran Church felt surreal. Elara had attended services there sporadically during her marriage, mostly for Christmas and Easter performances that the girls participated in. She knew the layout: the welcoming foyer with its information tables, the sanctuary with its neat rows of wooden pews, the predictable rhythm of Lutheran liturgy.

The parking lot was already half full when she arrived at 10:15 AM. The late service started at 10:30, which gave her a narrow window to execute her plan. She sat in her car for a moment, watching familiar faces head toward the building—people who'd smiled at her family during happier times, who now believed Agnes's carefully crafted lies about her character.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Maya: You sure about this?

Elara typed back: They started this war. I'm just choosing the battlefield.

The church foyer was exactly as she remembered: burgundy carpet, polished wood tables laden with bulletins and welcome materials, the gentle hum of pre-service conversation. A few early arrivals clustered near the coffee station, discussing the unseasonably warm weather and upcoming harvest festival.

Elara's heart hammered as she approached the main welcome table, where stacks of genuine hymnals sat alongside church bulletins and visitor information. The elderly volunteer manning the table—Mrs. Patterson, she remembered—looked up with a polite smile.

"Good morning! Are you visiting with us today?"

"Actually, I used to attend here," Elara said smoothly, her voice pitched to sound pleasantly nostalgic. "My late husband's family are longtime members. I brought some supplementary worship materials that I thought the congregation might appreciate."

She lifted her box onto the table with practiced casualness, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Mrs. Patterson peered inside with benign curiosity.

"Oh, how thoughtful! Are these for a special service?"

"Something like that." Elara began placing her custom hymnals among the legitimate ones, spacing them strategically so they'd be distributed naturally as people entered. "Agnes and Harold Vance suggested them. They thought the congregation would benefit from some... additional perspectives on family values."

The mention of the Vance name worked like magic. Mrs. Patterson's face lit up with recognition and approval. Agnes and Harold were pillars of this community, their recommendation beyond question.

"Well, isn't that wonderful! Agnes has been such a blessing during this difficult time. We've all been praying for their family."

"Yes," Elara murmured, placing the last of her hymnals. "They're certainly... devoted to their version of family values."

She was turning to leave when she felt a gentle touch on her elbow. A woman about her own age, with kind eyes and a sympathetic expression, had approached the table.

"Excuse me," the woman said quietly. "You're Elara Vance, aren't you? David's widow?"

Elara tensed, preparing for another confrontation, but the woman's expression held no judgment—only compassion.

"I'm Sarah Mitchell. Pastor Mitchell's wife." She glanced around, then lowered her voice. "I wanted you to know that not everyone here believes the gossip that's been circulating. Some of us remember what kind of man your husband really was."

The words hit Elara like a physical blow. She'd been so focused on Agnes's campaign of lies that she'd forgotten there might be allies in unexpected places.

"I—thank you," she managed.

Sarah squeezed her arm gently. "What you're dealing with isn't right. And what those girls have been through..." She shook her head. "Just know that you have friends here, even if we haven't been vocal about it."

As Sarah walked away, Elara felt a moment of doubt. There were good people in this congregation, people who might be hurt by the collateral damage of her revenge. But then she thought of Lily crying in the car yesterday, of Maya's rage at being called a bastard by her own grandparents, and her resolve hardened.

Agnes and Harold had chosen this battlefield when they decided to weaponize their church community against her children. If innocent people got caught in the crossfire, that was on them, not her.

She walked back to her car with measured steps, resisting the urge to look back. The trap was set. In fifteen minutes, the late service would begin. In twenty minutes, the congregation would open their songbooks for the opening hymn.

And then, Agnes and Harold Vance would learn exactly what happened when you threatened Elara Vance's children.

Her phone buzzed as she started the engine. A text from an unknown number: This is Sarah Mitchell. Got your number from the church directory. Whatever you just did in there, I hope it works. Some people need to face consequences for their actions.

Elara stared at the message, then typed back: It will work. And thank you.

As she drove away from Saint Matthew's Lutheran Church, Elara felt something she hadn't experienced in months: the fierce satisfaction of a predator who'd successfully stalked her prey. Agnes wanted to play games with reputation and public humiliation?

Game on.