Freya, standing in Val’s kitchen, scraped her gaze down Val’s body, taking note of the cast on her leg due to a hairline fracture of her tibia, thanks to Devota, the killer nun. God, that sounded terrible, but at least she was behind bars, unable to hurt anyone else.

And the secrets of Val’s birth were out in the open; she now knew who she was, though it wasn’t a happy thought. How many mothers could she bury before she turned thirty-five? It was hard to think of Sister Charity as her mother—that stern old bat of a nun who turned out to be loving in her own distant way, and Arthur Wembley, her father? The guy had to have been in his sixties when he’d had the affair and ended up fathering a child he didn’t want. Now he, too, was dying. Val didn’t think she’d make the trip to see him in the hospital, nor did she want a face-off with his wife, the elderly woman who had paid off Camille rather than allow details of her husband’s illicit affair to come to light. No scandal at the bridge table for Mrs. Arthur Wembley.

Devota had actually helped out good old Marion by killing Camille and ending the blackmail. That still bothered Val a lot, that Camille would use Val’s birth as a means to extract money—for what?

Probably herself and her child.

As soon as her pregnancy was discovered, Camille would have had to leave the convent and she’d have to provide for her baby . . .

Just thinking of her sister brought a lump to her throat. God, Val missed her. True, Camille hadn’t been the most rock-steady of sisters, but there had been many and variegated shades of gray to Camille. Never black, rarely white, Camille had always been a mystery, but a fun one. Val considered Camille’s child. Who was its father? If not Father Frank, then who had impregnated her? Val decided she would never figure out the answer to that one. As far as she knew, Camille hadn’t divulged the child’s paternity to anyone.

Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she thought the baby could be Frank’s. Maybe the father doesn’t even know about it. . . .

Val wondered vaguely if Sister Lucia, Camille’s best friend, had known the truth. According to the police, Lucia Costa had skipped town. No one believed she was dead, but then, who really knew?

“Yeah,” Freya was saying, nodding, her red curls catching in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “I’m sure. Sarah said she’d come and help me for a while, until you decide.”

“I thought you never hear from your twin.”

“Well, unless I call her . . . and she’s ‘between gigs,’ whatever that means.” Freya’s mouth spread into an easy grin.