He’d carefully photocopied the pages on Val’s clunky printer and had left the original diary intact for the police. Though he’d expected the pages to reveal some of Camille’s inner thoughts, he hadn’t been prepared for the graphic nature of her affair. There were a few names scattered throughout the pages, but none of them were connected with her romantic or sexual relationships, at least not directly. And there were what appeared to be initials, maybe just notes, indecipherable, at least to him.

Val finally took a sip of her wine. Her countenance was troubled. “Some of the notes are in code.” She frowned, then pointed out a note. The quickly scribbled line read C U N 7734, RM CV.

“What? Is that part of a phone number?” he asked. “Or a license plate?”

“RM CV—Room 105?” she thought aloud. “Is it partly RM—room, then CV like in Roman numerals?”

“Maybe. They could use them at St. Marguerite’s. At least more often than on the outside.”

“You talk like it’s a prison.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not according to Camille. She told me that no one forces them to stay inside, just their own conscience and commitment.” Frowning, she shook her head as she read the notes. “But who knows?” she said, disturbed. Then, flipping one of the copied pages, she said, “Here’s another: ‘TOM BF 2 M and M.’ ”

“BF—isn’t that ‘best friend’ in kid jargon?” Slade asked.

“Seriously? You’ve been keeping up with teen-speak? How do you know this, Cowboy?”

“We do have computers at the ranch, you know. I do have a cell phone. I have heard of Facebook.” He winked at her. “Even in Bad Luck, Texas, kids text. Sometimes, I think, adults do, too.”

“Wise guy!”

“Everyone who’s conscious on this planet knows the whole BF and BFF thing. Even nuns in St. Marguerite’s, despite its archaic facade.”

“It’s not a facade—trust me.” She rolled her eyes, but at least she scared up a smile. “Okay, Mr. Text, then if TOM is ‘Thomas’ someone, like the priest at St. Elsinore’s, what’s the rest of it? Best friends to M and Ms? The candy?”

“A lot of people are,” he deadpanned.

“I know. I think I qualify.” She thought hard. “Tom . . . Do you think?”

“That she was involved with the priest from St. Elsinore’s?” He shook his head. “What are the chances that she found two priests who were willing to break their vows? What’s that say about them?”

“Or her?”

“We already know about her,” he said, and instead of arguing with him in the no-win battle, she sipped from her glass, found no answers to the cryptic notes, and saw another—a doodle really. A heart shape, with a message inside: CALLED.