It was eight o’clock in the damned morning, and he was powering up on coffee and a couple of cigarettes he’d snuck on the way into work, a sure sign that he was running on empty. Yeah, there was the adrenaline high of being on a big case, one that was now attracting national attention, but today, after less than four hours of sleep, he was at the end of his very short rope.

He’d been at the cemetery until after three, interviewing all the novices and nuns again, but Sister Charity and Father Paul were stonewalling him, putting up roadblocks. They’d outwardly cooperated, answering questions, allowing access to all the people who lived within the confines of St. Marguerite’s, but there had been several mentions of “talking to the archdiocese” and “keeping the bishop” informed. Montoya’s translation: Attorneys for the church were about to be called in, even though, as Sister Charity had said, “we will do everything in our power to help find the tortured soul who is doing this.”

Father Frank had been stunned, nearly apoplectic, to the point his face had faded to a sickly color of white and he’d held on to the wall so that his knees wouldn’t buckle. “No,” he’d whispered, and closed his eyes to say a silent prayer, his lips moving, no sound escaping from his throat.

Had the two dead novices been close?

No one could really say; they hadn’t seemed to hang out together any more than anyone else.

Had they both been involved with Father Frank? There had been no evidence of that, though a few of the nuns had blushed at the thought. Edwina, Devota, Charity, of course, and Maura had all nearly squirmed in their chairs.

This time Lucia was not alone when she found the body; Sister Edwina had been with her. Lucia had been awoken by something, not a noise she could or would name, and Edwina had said she’d gotten up to use the bathroom, though that story didn’t quite jive with Lucia’s.

He settled behind his desk while the sounds of the department buzzed around him. Phones were already jangling, voices rising, the antiquated air-conditioning system kicking on with a familiar growl. The wheels of the investigation were turning. More cops talking to anyone associated with Sister Asteria, her last few days scrutinized, any anomalies in her life noted, even the smallest connection to Sister Camille put under a microscope. The lab work was being done, collected evidence sorted and studied, Asteria’s body being prepared for the first incision of the autopsy. Two detectives had been sent to St. Elsinore’s, where Camille had worked, though it seemed Asteria’s daily routine didn’t include the orphanage on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain.

He thought of Asteria with her freckled face and red hair, and his gut twisted. Another short life cut off mercilessly. Hideously.