The device was wrapped in a plastic bag that she pushed across the counter. “I don’t know if it’s Camille’s. I assume that it is and that the killer stole it from her on the night she died, then used it whenever he needed it. And, yes, I did touch it before I realized what it was.” She met Montoya’s gaze. “I looked through it, too, because I couldn’t help myself.”

Bentz got out his notebook, Montoya his digital voice recorder. “Let’s go through this again,” Bentz said. “What happened earlier?”

She launched into her tale of the break-in, if you could even call it as such. Neither of her doors had been locked when she’d thought she’d seen the intruder and had heard what she’d first thought was a gunshot.

They asked questions and she answered; the husband backed her up. They admitted that the scattered items in the living room belonged to Camille, the contents of boxes they’d found in the garage; then they played the first video on the BlackBerry, and every muscle in Montoya’s body tightened as he watched Camille Renard, dressed in the tired bridal gown, struggle for her dying breaths. Panic rounded her beautiful eyes as they bulged and she finally, painfully, let go of life.

Fury invaded his bloodstream. What kind of sicko would kill someone and film it? A poor man’s snuff film. Of a nun.

“Jesus,” he muttered as the next video played.

His guts twisted as he watched Sister Asteria in another bridal gown, the darkness of the cemetery and whitewashed tombs surrounding her as she seemed to beg for her life as she was being garroted, blood circling her throat, the dress not yet decorated with its drops of blood. That must’ve been done afterward, after the video session was finished.

For a second, after the video was over, he couldn’t speak, could barely think. The ticking of a nearby clock seemed to echo through his brain.

He thought of Grace Blanc, displayed on her bed, half dressed, her throat bruised and bloodied from a garrote. He glanced at Bentz, whose color had drained from his face.

“You said there was an audio message.”

“Yeah,” the husband said, his eyes dark, his eyebrows slammed together in worry.

Through the plastic, Valerie pressed another button, and soon a voice was hissing through the room. “You’re on the list.” The words were drawn out. Then there was a pause and the rest of the message: “There is no escape.”

The voice was obviously disguised and not only threatening, but also smug. “I take it you don’t know who it is?”

“No.” Valerie shook her head.

“So why would you become a target? You’re not a nun,” he thought aloud.