Devota went on, almost as if the words that had been bottled up in her for years were now bubbling upward, like froth from some ruined, bitter champagne finally uncorked. “She couldn’t wait to stick it to Old Man Wembley. I followed her, witnessed the old woman, the wife, paying the blood money to Camille, and you know what she did with part of it? She gave it to that witchy little Lucia. That twit! I saw it with my own eyes, and it didn’t take too long to put two and two together.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” But Valerie was wavering, her voice not as strong.

“Of course I do!” Devota snapped, suddenly angry all over again, spittle flying as she added, “True to her nature, that Jezebel was blackmailing the Wembleys, and the missus, she wasn’t too happy about it!”

Charity couldn’t stand to hear another word. “What do you want from me?” she demanded, reeling from the mortification of her life, her secrets, being exposed—to the very daughter she’d tried to save.

She realized that she was about to lose her life, now, when she had so many sins to atone for.

“What do I want from you?” Devota repeated, unafraid of the gun that was trained on her. She was breathing hard, furious, as she sneered into Charity’s ear, “I think you know, Reverend Mother. I want you to pay, of course. Like the others. They, too, were whores, all of them in love with Father O’Toole.”

“No!” Charity shook her head. She wouldn’t have the sisters vilified.

But Devota was convinced of their sins. “I know that probably only Camille had actually lain with him,” she said, and a shudder ripped through her body. Charity could feel it. As if the thought of Camille and Frank together was so vulgar Devota could hardly stand it, was nearly to the point of vomiting. Yet, she wasn’t finished.