A group of twenty or so nuns, all in black habits, were singing in harmony from their spots on risers. Their gazes were locked on the woman leading them, a tall nun with her back to the door.

Lucia Costa was front and center, her voice bright and clear.

Cruz’s chest tightened. She hadn’t changed much, still small and petite, her face without lines. Her eyes were large, with thick lashes and arched eyebrows, set above pronounced cheekbones that angled to a pointed chin.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her trapped in the twisted metal that had been his car, blood streaming down the side of her face. Her black hair had been matted and lank, her eyes rolled upward in her head. Later she’d awoken for just a second and whispered in pain, “Danger . . .” then blacked out.

Guilt overtook him, and the scar splitting his eyebrow pulsed.

At that moment, Lucia’s gaze strayed from the choir leader to the door, and she missed a note, her eyes rounding at the sight of Cruz. The two nuns next to her, a tall African American and a shorter woman with big glasses, shot her a look at the sour note.

Lucia blanched, tried to pay attention to the choir mistress who rapped her baton on the music stand in front of her. The music stopped, voices fading as the piano’s notes ended abruptly.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Sisters, please!” the leader said sharply. “Sopranos? Is something wrong? Sister Lucia?”

“No,” Lucia answered, her voice so familiar, as if he’d been with her just yesterday. “I . . . I just lost track of where we were.”

“Then pay attention!” Again there was a rapping. “From the refrain,” she said. A piano chord echoed through the hallways, and the female voices rose again.

He decided to wait.

Why not?

Again, the worst thing that could happen was that they’d toss him out. Well, so be it. Sister Charity might be an authority figure, but she wasn’t exactly the Gestapo. She was a nun, for crying out loud.

He folded his arms over his chest and settled in near the door, one shoulder propped against the wall.

Some twenty minutes later, the singing stopped, giving way to the shuffling of feet. Suddenly nuns spilled into the hallway, a small parade of black habits, veils, and white wimples. Really, with them covered in those gowns and veils, Cruz could barely tell them apart.

Several stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of him.

“I’m Sister Irene. May I help you?” a tall woman asked, her gray eyes curious.

“I’d like to speak to Sister Lucia,” Cruz said, his gaze traveling to Lucia, who looked as if she wanted to be swallowed up by the polished floor.

“This is highly irregular,” a bookish nun in large glasses said.