“Because she, too, was enamored with Father O’Toole.” Charity sighed through her nose. “The girls who come here, for the most part, are barely women. They’re young and full of life and filled with joie de vivre and the Holy Spirit. They’re often giddy and naive, some even rebellious, but they are good-hearted and willing to serve God and come here to learn. I’m strict with them, yes. They often need structure and discipline, but in the end, they can be trained to be angels of mercy here on earth. . . . Oh, listen to me go on. The point is, they’re impressionable, and they are women. They have hormones and dreams, and many are romantic, caught up in youth and . . .” She pulled a hand from the pocket of her habit and waved off whatever else she might say as fluff.

“Anyway, I saw that Sister Lea was treading in dangerous water, falling in love with Father O’Toole. He’s handsome and fiery and virile.” She slid a glance at Montoya. “As I said, nuns, even this old one, are women. We notice though we try not to.” She cleared her throat, her hand disappearing into the black folds of her habit again. “I wasn’t the only one who witnessed the, uh . . . attraction. I heard the younger nuns talking, and Father Frank . . . well, just as the nuns are women, he’s a man. It was a difficult situation.

“I talked to Lea. Actually, she came to me and though she wouldn’t discuss what had happened between her and Father Frank, she agreed to leave, but only on her terms. She’d lost her spirit of conviction and wasn’t certain she wanted to be a nun any longer. I let her go.”

“And you didn’t check on her?” Bentz asked.

The older woman turned and skewered him with a gaze meant to cut through granite. “No, Detective, I didn’t. I asked her to contact me when she was settled, and I received a postcard saying she was leaving the church. . . . Here, maybe I can find that one, too.” She walked to her file drawers again and searched through several files before she found what she was looking for. She handed him a postcard of St. Paul’s Cathedral in San Francisco, the twin spires cutting upward through the fog. On the back was a handwritten note stating that she’d arrived, was “excited” to be in “the city” and was still working on her spiritual issues.

“Can we take this?” Montoya asked.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Have you talked with any members of her family?” Bentz asked as Montoya carefully slid the postcard in with the Christmas card in the plastic evidence bag.