Val glanced at her program and saw that it had been printed too early to erase the names of all the members of the choir, and as she studied the names, listed one after another, she saw something she’d missed earlier. Or was she nuts?

The sopranos were listed as:

Sister Camille

Sister Asteria

Sister Lucia

Sister Louise

Sister Edwina

Sister Devota

The altos were:

Sister Zita

Sister Irene

Sister Maura

When she took the first letters of the sopranos’ names and listed them, they spelled out CALLED. If she drew a heart around the letters, like a noose, she’d get one of the messages Camille had left in her diary.

So what? she asked herself. That’s kind of random. Still she felt a bit of a buzz run through her nerves, the sense that she was on to something—something important.

What had Camille said so long ago—that the sopranos all had a crush on Father Frank. Was it possible?

Val’s mind was racing with possibilities, and the conclusion she drew was too bizarre to consider:

Camille had known which nuns had a crush on Father Frank.

Of the six, two were dead and two were missing. Both Sister Lucia and Sister Louise were nowhere to be found.

Val’s insides turned to ice. Were they dead? Already dressed in bridal gowns, their throats sliced by the horrid garrote?

If so, she thought, looking over the list of names again, it meant that Sister Edwina and Sister Devota were his next victims!

Valerie turned her attention to the small choir, singing the Lord’s praises, lifting their voices in song.

Sister Devota’s gaze moved, slid across the room. For half a heartbeat, she stared straight at Valerie.

As if she knew.

As if she, too, felt the evil that was hiding in the corners, noticed the tremor of premonition that ripped though Val’s soul.

Or was Val wrong?

Hadn’t the killer told her differently? Hadn’t he singled her out?

You’re nexxxt, he’d rasped into her phone, telling her that she would be his victim. There is no esssscape.

Sister Devota’s gaze had shifted again, and Val drew in a long, calming breath.

She decided she wouldn’t be played as a victim. Bring it on, you twisted bastard, she thought angrily. I’m sick and tired of playing games.

So this is it, I think from my spot on the upper landing. I stare down at the patrons of the orphanage as they gather, a teeming, glittering crowd, all eager to partake of the festivities.

A tribute to the whore . . .

A joke.

And yet, don’t I feel her presence here? Don’t I hear her laughter? A wave of regret passes through me as I think of Camille with her naughty smile and bright eyes.

“Teach me,” she’d pleaded, so willing.

And I had.

But I hadn’t been alone in her education, I realize.