He made a note of all the anomalies of Camille’s life, those things that didn’t mesh with the archaic institution where she lived and the daily routine that she was supposed to follow. Her pregnancy. The wedding dress in which she’d been killed. The e-mails to her sister. He figured convents weren’t known for being high-tech, but St. Marguerite’s was more antiquated than most. Yet Camille was e-mailing, maybe texting. To Valerie, he knew, but who else did she send messages to?

The phone records should be arriving soon. He double-checked his computer to see if they’d been e-mailed.

Not yet.

He was trying to piece the last few days of Sister Camille’s life together but wasn’t making much progress. She spent her hours much like the other nuns—on a strict schedule that included prayers and praises, sermons, meditation time, meal preparation, and partaking of meals. There was some light housework involved, and Sister Camille also worked in the convent herb garden. According to the mother superior, Camille also ventured outside St. Marguerite’s walls to the orphanage at St. Elsinore’s, on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain.

As far as Montoya could tell, her visits to St. Elsinore’s were about the only times she left the convent grounds.

Could she have met her killer on the outside?

Or was it someone she knew intimately, someone she saw often within the gated walls of St. Marguerite’s?

And what about the orphanage at St. Elsinore’s, the aging institution from which Camille and Valerie had been adopted? According to his notes, Camille had been there as an infant, but Valerie had been five years old. The older sister would have remembered, but for Camille, it would be a blur in her memory. Was it significant that she’d been volunteering there lately, or just a coincidence?

He glanced down to his desk where Frank O’Toole’s statement was piled on top of the others. On the surface, his alibi had checked out, but it deserved another look. Especially in light of his emotional confession to Sister Lucia.

Down the hallway, he heard some scumbag protesting his innocence while demanding the removal of his cuffs.

Some things never changed.

Montoya’s cell phone rang, and he saw his home number, as well as Abby’s face, appear on the small screen.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey back atcha.”

Just the sound of her voice was enough to calm him. He leaned back in his chair. “What’s up?”

“Only the usual: diapers, spit-up, laundry, and never enough sleep, thanks to you and Ben.”

He chuckled, then yawned. It had been a long night and day. He was starting to feel the round-the-clock hours in his neck and back.

“So,” she continued, “I was just wondering if you were coming home for dinner—you know, since it’s already getting dark?”

Was there a bit of resentment in her question?