“Is it?” She offered him an impassive smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Growing up in a very Catholic family, Cruz had been around his share of nuns. Some had been stoic, some fun-loving, some seemed to be filled with the Holy Spirt, and some, drill sergeants like Sister Charity, were all about rules, obedience, and punishment. Cruz couldn’t help but wonder what made the woman tick, what her story was. Where’d she come from? How had she ended up here, at St. Marguerite’s, with Lucia?

“You can confide in me, Mr. Montoya.”

Seriously? “I said it’s personal.”

With a long-suffering sigh, she stood, signifying the meeting was over. “Then I guess we’re finished here. I’ll be certain to let Sister Lucia know that you stopped by.”

Another lie.

Cruz rose just as there was a series of soft raps on the door.

Little lines of irritation pinched the corners of Sister Charity’s mouth. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’m a busy woman. You know what they say about God’s work? That it’s never done? Well, it’s true, Mr. Montoya.”

Another rap, then the receptionist, a laywoman with frizzy blue hair and a suit of olive polyester, poked her head inside. “I’m sorry to bother you, Reverend Mother,” she said, glancing nervously at Cruz, “but there’s a call for you. Sister Simone from St. Elsinore’s.”

“Thank you, Eileen, I’ll take the call. Mr. Montoya was just leaving.”

That was his cue.

As the receptionist retreated, Sister Charity moved back to her desk and reached for the receiver of the black telephone, a behemoth that looked like something straight out of the sixties. “God be with you,” she said softly as Cruz left.

He walked past the impossibly thin receptionist and wondered why a church and convent, a house of God, could seem so evil.

Just your imagination.

He started for the main doors, then paused as he heard voices lifted in song. He knew he shouldn’t intrude—as the reverend mother had reminded him, this was a place of worship and solace—but he tossed her warnings aside.

What was the worst that could happen?

He’d be tossed out on his ear?

So what?

The police would be called?

Nah. What would he be charged with? Trespassing? No way.

Quietly, feeling guilty of some nameless sin, he followed the sound of a hymn from his youth. Around a corner, the music was much louder.

It came through a door that was slightly ajar.

Accompanied by a pianist, the voices sang a rendition of “Ave Maria” that filled the small music chamber and flowed into the corridor. Women’s voices rising in faith and song.

He peered inside.