But he hadn’t suspected there would be other victims, that Camille might just be the first trophy of a serial killer. Man, he didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to think that someone off his nut was into picking off nuns.

Not just nuns, but sisters who lived here, at St. Marguerite’s.

Unless there was another connection between the two women.

His shoes rang down the old hallways as he made his way to the rooms set up for interviews. Once again, he was going to spend the wee hours of the morning talking with the inhabitants of St. Marguerite’s, and it would probably be worse than before.

This time they knew a killer was in their midst.

And, apparently, he wasn’t going away.

“Wake up, sunshine, let’s go!”

Somewhere, as if far in the distance, Val heard Slade’s voice.

“Hey, Val!”

Her eyes flew open, and she noticed sunlight streaming through the windows. Slade, dressed, his hair wet from a recent shower, was towering over her bed. Bo, who had climbed onto the foot of the iron four-poster, lifted his head and thumped his tail wildly as Slade scratched his ears.

“What time is it?” she said, rolling over the bed and looking at the clock. “Six-thirty?” She felt as if she hadn’t slept a wink.

“Get a move on.” Through the blankets, he slapped her on the butt.

“Hey! What’s the rush? I thought you said eight o’clock or nine or . . .” She blinked her eyes open, the bleariness receding. “How did you get in here?”

“Freya gave me a key.”

“Remind me to wring her neck.”

“Run through the shower. I’ll make the coffee.”

“Or maybe I’ll just shoot her. Easier.”

“Come on!”

“I don’t like to be bullied.”

“I remember.” His voice held a note of nostalgia, but before she could pin him in her gaze, he walked out of the room.

What was his rush?

Not that she didn’t feel the urgency to find out what happened to Camille, but she’d spent all night and most of the wee morning hours studying Camille’s diary, trying to understand the sister she now felt she’d never really known.