She was introduced to several people, two nuns and a cook, none of whom could offer her more than a few words of comfort and kind thoughts about Camille.

“A lovely woman who enjoyed the children,” the tall, impossibly thin cook had said as she’d tossed a dirty apron into a hamper and hung up her hair net.

“Helped me in the infirmary whenever I needed it,” Sister Rosaria, an older nurse, agreed when they’d found her checking stock in a locked medications closet. She was frowning as she counted the vials and jars but paused to offer Val some encouragement. “I could always count on Camille to help with the kids.” She glanced up at Valerie over the lenses of her thin glasses. “No matter how you sugarcoat it, kids hate shots.” She offered a weary smile. “I’ll miss Camille, and I’m truly sorry for you and your family.”

Val fought a tightening in her throat as they walked from the infirmary to a hallway she knew, from memory, led to the chapel.

“Oh, here we go,” the reverend mother said as they passed a window with a view of the playground. “Sister Simone was very close to Camille.” She walked rapidly toward a doorway leading outside, where a woman, Sister Simone presumably, was gathering some balls and a Wiffle-ball bat that had been forgotten during cleanup.

With coffee-colored skin and curly black hair, Simone was nearly five ten, big-boned with dark, slightly suspicious eyes. She’d been humming to herself, a pop song Valerie couldn’t quite name, but stopped abruptly as they approached.

When Sister Georgia introduced them and explained that Val was Camille’s sister, Simone’s face fell into sadness. She offered her condolences, then said, “I’m really going to miss Camille. She was never late, always had a smile.”

“Sister Georgia?” the receptionist called from a doorway. “There you are! You have a phone call.”

“I’m sorry,” Sister Georgia said quickly. “No rest for the wicked. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Or weary,” Sister Simone said. Her curly black hair was unruly, her smile a wide slash of white against her smooth skin. “Works either way.”

“Of course it does.” The mother superior was distracted. “Would you mind showing Valerie around?”

Before Simone could answer, the reverend mother bustled off and through the doorway.

“I guess you’re on,” Val said, “whether you want to be or not.”

“Sister, are you all right?” a blond woman asked Lucia, who was still stunned from the near accident and the fact that Cruz, still holding her, had probably saved her life.

She realized that people were still looking at her—no, make that at them. She in full nun’s habit—wimple, scapular, veil, and all—and Cruz in his T-shirt and jeans, his arms lingering a little too long around her as he yanked her from the street.