The chapel came into view first, whitewashed bricks and stained-glass windows, a steeple rising high into the hazy day. Upon closer inspection, she saw that there were cracks in the steeple and that some of the glass panes had been covered in plywood, the whitewash dingy and streaked.

Through the fence, she saw a few children playing on old equipment as Slade pulled into a potholed parking lot. Val told herself that she was being ridiculous, that St. Elsinore’s was a parish with an orphanage and the people who worked here were God-fearing and well intentioned.

High-pitched voices, squeals, and laughter rang through the play yard and into the quiet neighborhood surrounding the parish. Large trees, their leaves and gnarled branches creating a thick canopy, allowed sunlight to dapple the ground and the cracked sidewalks leading to the old, scarred doors of the orphanage.

Telling herself she was being an idiot, Val made her way up the broad steps and into the vestibule where the smell of warm bread and cinnamon invaded the dark hallways. She saw the office door with its pebbled glass window and pushed it open to find a woman sitting at a desk in front of a glowing computer screen. She looked up as they entered. “May I help you?” she asked, rising and extending her hand. “I’m Sister Philomena, the receptionist here.” Her eyes were bright, her smile wide, her handshake firm. She was wearing slacks and a light sweater, her hair cut in a stylish bob.

A far cry from the black-draped, somber nuns Val remembered thirty-odd years earlier.

She introduced herself and told the nun that Slade was her husband, not bothering to try and explain her complicated relationship with him. “My sister was Sister Camille Renard, and I was told she worked here.”

“Oh, yes. I’m so, so sorry for your loss.” Sister Philomena seemed sincere. “Camille was a delight.”

Tears threatened the back of Val’s eyes at the compliment, surprised at the nun’s kind words and her own reaction. With the new, emerging image of her sister, she was grateful that someone besides herself had seen the good in Cammie. “Thank you,” she said, not so much as glancing at Slade.

Clearing her throat, she added, “I’d really like to talk to some of her coworkers.”

“Or the priest?” she asked. “You know, Father Thomas is extremely understanding and can help you through your grief.”

She wasn’t here for grief counseling, but, of course, Sister Philomena didn’t understand that. “Maybe later. For now, I’d like to speak with her friends. I know she worked here often.”

“Of course.” Sister Philomena was nodding. “We should start with the reverend mother.” She turned, then rapped gently on an inner door, slipped inside, and within seconds, she returned, a tiny woman bustling after her.