She rolled off her bed and started stripping out of her oversized T-shirt. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the antique mirror on the counter and cringed when she saw her wild hair and red-rimmed eyes. Her lips were devoid of any color, her eyes had huge circles under them, and the skin beneath her freckles was a sickly white. Rather than linger on the image, she walked to the shower, taking a few seconds to wash and rinse her hair, then snapped it back into a wet ponytail. A dash of lipstick and blush, a swab of mascara, and her makeup was complete. She threw on her clothes and walked barefoot into the living room to the smell of brewing coffee. In the living area, the television was on, the volume low on the local news, and Slade was just coming into the kitchen through the back door with Bo at his heels.

“Dog’s been fed and let out. Grab a to-go cup and let’s roll.” He’d already grabbed Camille’s diary within its plastic bag.

As she poured a cup and added a splash of cream, she saw Slade pause behind the sofa, sipping coffee, his eyes focused on the television screen. “You’d better come see this,” he suggested.

She walked up to stand next to him just as the camera panned over a scene she recognized, the double doors to St. Marguerite’s Cathedral. A reporter stood before the edifice, eyes staring straight into the camera’s lens.

Before she could tune in to what the report was saying, Slade said, “This isn’t an old tape. This is live, Val.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard it on the radio. Your sister’s murder isn’t an isolated case any longer. Another novice has been killed at St. Marguerite’s.”

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 35

“Just don’t tell me she was pregnant,” Montoya said to Lynn Zaroster the next morning as he poured himself another cup of coffee in the small lunchroom at the station. He was talking about the latest victim at St. Marguerite’s: Sister Asteria McClellan, all of twenty-two.

“Too early to know. Autopsy’s scheduled for later today; they put a rush on it.”

“Good.”

“Anyone talk to the family?”

“Parents and six siblings, younger, most of whom still live at home, all in Birmingham.” She glanced down at her notepad. “Jacob and Colleen McClellan are the folks. They’re being notified this morning.” She glanced at her watch. “Should be happening now.”

Montoya gritted his teeth. Notifying next of kin was a hard job, necessary and oftentimes informative, but giving out the news that a loved one had died was hell.