A pause. She counted the seconds. At five he said, “Oookay,” as if he wasn’t certain.

Her heart nearly fell through the floor. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important!” she whispered, worried that he wouldn’t do as she asked. Then what? She didn’t have a plan B.

“So then where? At the convent?” His voice was wary, as if he expected there to be some trick to her request.

“No!” Panic flooded through her. “Not here. Meet me at . . . There’s a gas station and mini-mart on Rampart, near the park.”

“You’re serious?” Doubt had crept into his voice.

“Yes,” she said, looking over her shoulder, feeling as if this very room had eyes and ears all its own, as if she were being observed. She shivered, suddenly cold as death. “I’m as serious as I’ve been about anything in my life.”

She heard it then.

The pad of footsteps.

Heart in her throat, she slowly replaced the receiver and, careful not to stub her toe again, slid into a dark corner that would be behind the door as it opened, in the corner by the bookcase.

She held her breath, the tread coming closer, her heart’s thudding cadence in counterpoint.

Don’t come in here. Please, please, please . . . don’t—

Then, almost automatically, as she heard the footsteps pause outside the door, she grabbed the door’s knob and held fast.

On the other side, someone tried to twist it open.

Lucia strained, put all her muscle into it.

The pressure released.

She didn’t give up. Held tight.

Again, the doorknob tried to turn.

Sweat rained down her forehead, dampening her palms. The knob slid a bit but didn’t give.

She heard a snort of disgust on the other side; then the pressure released.

Lucia bit her lip. Didn’t move.

But the footsteps moved on. Threading down the hallway. Which direction?

Lucia’s throat was as dry as the Sahara. Her skin wet with nervous sweat.

Did she dare try to leave, to stick her head out of Sister Charity’s office? So what if someone caught her?

No! No one can see you or you won’t be able to meet Cruz! Time is passing.

She counted off sixty seconds and was about to open the door when she heard another lock click softly.

What?

From where?

She whipped her head around, searching for the sound.

Again the soft tread of footsteps, but this time coming from the other side of the main door to Sister Charity’s office, in the outer reception area, where Eileen Moore’s desk was located.

Oh, sweet Jesus!

In a few seconds, whoever it was would be inside. There was no time to leap across the room and try to lock the door now! Nor did she have the option of holding it in her hands as she had this one. Not unless she wanted to be exposed.