Montoya had decided to talk directly with Sister Lucia, despite their connection. He wanted to see for himself her reactions when questioned about one of her friends. Now they were seated opposite each other, in the same room in which he’d interviewed Frank O’Toole less than twenty-four hours earlier. Same dim wall sconce and scarred table, same disturbing feeling that the truth was hiding in the corners just out of touch and skittering away from the light.

“You don’t remember what it was that woke you?” Montoya asked, checking his notes.

Sister Lucia shook her head as she nervously braided her fingers together. She was pale and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but in this small room talking to the police.

The door to the outer hallway was ajar, a bit of cool air from the darkened corridor seeping inside. Montoya wanted to close the door, suspecting that the reverend mother was still prowling nearby, and her presence had an icy effect on the rest of the nuns.

On the other side of the chapel, Bentz was in a similar room, questioning people who resided in the convent—nuns and lay staff—whose statements needed clarification.

“No,” she said now, “I don’t remember a specific sound waking me. It was just a feeling I had.” She bit her lip anxiously, and he could see that she was a really bad liar. “Maybe I, er, heard a noise in my sleep, a dream or something, but nothing I can really name.”

“A scream?” he prodded.

She shook her head violently. “No.” She blushed and looked away.

“A cry for help?”

“No!”

“Footsteps?”

She met his eyes, her gaze miserable in her grief. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

They were getting nowhere. He tried a new direction. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about Father O’Toole. You found him in the courtyard that night?”

“Yes. Or he found me. I was knocking on Father Paul’s door, and Father O’Toole stepped into the light. He startled me,” she said, explaining again how she had suddenly found the younger priest behind her.

“You were Sister Camille’s closest friend,” Montoya suggested.

“Maybe.” She lifted a shoulder. “At least one of them. We’re all friends here.”

He doubted that. “You were the one she confided in about her pregnancy, the only one.”

Lucia’s eyes slid away. “Yes,” she said faintly, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, you know, we went to school together, though we never hung out much then.”

“Did she tell you the baby was Father Frank O’Toole’s?”

Lines formed across her smooth forehead. “She never mentioned him specifically.”

Montoya took note.

“But she did say that she and the baby’s father were, uh, ‘involved’—that’s the word she used. Which was pretty obvious since she was pregnant,” Lucia said.

“But she didn’t mention Father O’Toole?”