“But I thought you got a call. . . .”

“Yeah, well, that was an excuse. I called myself.” He climbed in behind the wheel as she slid into the passenger seat.

“You what?”

“You were getting nowhere with the reverend mother. The same old runaround, and I decided I needed an excuse to leave and snoop around again. So I faked the call.”

“You’re downright devious,” she said as raindrops fell, pinging against the roof of the old Ford.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do.” She was surprised at his deception. “So did you find anything?”

He flicked the ignition, and the truck’s engine rumbled to life. “Yep.” Checking his mirror, he pulled into the street.

Her heart raced just a bit. “Okay, what?”

He slid her a glance. “Look in my jacket pocket,” he said, turning off the side street and into heavier traffic heading south.

She was already reaching into the space behind the seats where he’d tossed his jacket. Digging into the pocket, her fingers brushed against a plastic bag, and inside, the spine of a book. In her mind’s eye, she saw Camille’s empty cupboard. She felt a second of regret as she pulled out the slim bound pages, the cover as plain and black as a prayer book. “Camille’s diary?”

“Looks like.”

“You stole it?” she said, disbelieving. She’d been certain the killer had taken the diary to hide his identity.

“Borrowed. We’ll have to give it up to the police once we’re done with it.”

“Have you read it?”

“Only enough to confirm it was Cammie’s.”

“And you had an evidence bag with you?”

“I found some ziplocks in a drawer. Figured we didn’t want to destroy any evidence.”

Valerie swallowed hard. Through the plastic, her fingers caressed the soft leather binding, and she had the distinct feeling that when she opened the first page, she’d catch a glimpse into her sister’s private thoughts, maybe even her soul. She hesitated, afraid of what she might find. “This seems wrong. Like we’re trespassing.”

He slid her a glance. “I thought you wanted to find out who killed her.”

“I do.”

“Then?”

She stiffened her spine. “Yeah, I know.” As the wheels of his truck reached the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, rain began to spit faster from the sky.

“There are gloves in the box.”

“Really?”

“It is called a glove box.”

“Yeah, I know. But for you . . . Oh, never mind.” She opened the compartment, and sure enough, along with a flashlight, a wrench, pliers, a pocketknife, and a bag of dog biscuits, there was a box of latex gloves.

“I do examine livestock, y’know. Give ’em shots, clean ’em, help pull calves and foals.” He shrugged. “It’s just better to be prepared.”

“Besides, you never know when you’re going to steal evidence and hope to convince the authorities that you didn’t taint anything.”

“Yeah.” He nodded.