There had been many teachers.

That was why she’d been so unique.

I’ve lost at love before, of course.

But this time . . . this time I cannot stand the pain.

I feel the rosary, deep in my pockets, the sharp beads clicking softly, and I smile as I find a back staircase, the one used by the hotel staff, and step inside.

I push the button with the arrow pointing downward, and it lights brightly.

With a groan, the old car shudders into motion and I descend.

As if to the very bowels of hell.

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 50

Val had to tell him.

There was just no getting around it; she had to let Slade in on her plans.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered before the final prayer was intoned.

“Why?” Slade asked, but she was already pushing back her chair. When he caught the determination in her gaze, he followed suit. They weren’t alone. Other patrons were leaving the hotel, hoping to dash the few blocks to the orphanage and start bidding on the items on display in the old gymnasium.

“I want to poke around in the records of the orphanage,” she said under her breath, “before the whole place is torn down.” She didn’t have time to explain her urgency; it was just a feeling she had, stronger since seeing the picture of Sister Ignatia with the child. Soon the orphanage would be torn down or sold, the old records, those not on computer, lost or buried, the secrets they held gone forever.

“You can’t just go digging through the old records.”

“Not even if they’re about me?” she whispered as they crossed the main foyer, past the stools where the string quartet had played earlier, and through the glass doors into the night.

Rain was coming down steadily now, the wind whipping up. Slade battled the umbrella, then walked toward the church and orphanage. She sidestepped puddles as water rushed in the gutters, gurgling down the street, and though the air was warm, the drops falling from the sky felt cool and heavy.

As they made their way, she told Slade about what she’d seen in the program, how she’d tied it to Camille’s notes. He listened, holding the umbrella, but shook his head.

“You don’t think it’s anything?” she asked.

“Anything significant? I don’t see it.”

“You think I’m grasping at straws?”

“You tell me.”

She didn’t have time to argue with him, as they’d reached St. Elsinore’s.

Lights blazed around the cathedral, washing the old bricks with an eerie illumination that seemed to magnify the decay, showing off the crumbling bricks and cracks in the whitewash. While Spanish moss danced and swayed in the gusting wind, gargoyles stood guard of the cathedral. Perched on the gables and downspouts, the tiny demons appeared to ogle the flow of humanity streaming into the heavy doors of St. Elsinore’s.