“What? Oh, no! This is a convent, Detective, and though, yes, there have been some . . . well, indiscretions, it’s not as if it’s the summer of love here. Everyone, the priests, nuns, novices, we all practice celibacy, and before you interrupt, yes, I know about Sister Camille and Father O’Toole, and of course I’ll admit that Sister Lea was . . . tempted, as was Father O’Toole, but not Sister Asteria. . . .” But her voice faded, and for a second she turned her gaze from the detectives, staring off to the middle distance. Denial flared in her eyes but quickly died. “There may have been some flirting or, uh, fantasies on Asteria’s part, I suppose, but nothing serious, I assure you.”

Montoya nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. He had to ask something that had been nagging at him. “Sister Camille’s body had some odd marks on it,” he said, testing the waters.

The old nun stiffened slightly in her habit, but she didn’t ask what, just waited him out.

“Kind of crisscross marks.”

“As if she’d been flogged,” Bentz added, and the reverend mother whispered something under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Montoya said.

She closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them again, they were focused, clear behind the lenses of her glasses. She stared at him with the intensity of an entomologist dissecting a newfound species of insect. “Sometimes, Detective, when a sinner atones, she takes it upon herself to punish herself physically, for clarity and purification. Though this isn’t a practice I urge, I know it’s done here.”

“You don’t require or urge it, but you condone it?” Bentz said, his eyebrows slamming together.

“I believe that each individual must do what she feels is necessary as penance. It’s between her and the Holy Father.”

“Sister Camille practiced self-flagellation?”

“I don’t know for certain. As I said, there are some practices that might appear archaic such as corporal mortification, but I assure you, Detectives, it’s not something we practice as a whole, or even suggest. Do some practice it?” She nodded slowly. “I suppose. As I think I said before, Sister Camille was a tormented soul.”

She cleared her throat, scooped an excessively large key ring from a desk drawer, and said, “Now, please, if you come with me, there’s something I want to show you.” She waved them to their feet, and they followed her through a private door and along the quiet hallway to a staircase. Holding on to the rail, her steps quick, she led them to the third floor. Once there, she located a small doorway that opened to a musty attic. She snapped on a dim light, hiked up her skirts, and walked inside, passing by old desks and dusty lamps, candle holders and cots, artifacts and picture frames.