The solitude, sanctity, and safety of the convent would never be the same. Lucia felt the loss deep in her bones as she walked briskly along the corridor from her room.

Even when the police would finally leave and the chapel would be cleaned, when poor Sister Camille would be laid to rest and the last prayers whispered over her body, when the news cameras and reporters would no longer hover near the outside gate, St. Marguerite’s would forever be tainted. And Lucia would never be the same, the heaviness in her heart a constant burden she would have to live with.

Twisting the folds of her skirt in one hand, she tried to dismiss the worrisome feeling that had been burrowing deep in her soul ever since she’d awakened last night. But the feeling of evil still persisted, unaffected by the shafts of light playing through the stained-glass windows near the staircase.

The sun was out, warming the day.

Yet she still felt as cold as death inside.

She’d spent a restless night, awoken, and said morning prayers in the oratory with the rest of the nuns at five, then spent an hour meditating and silently saying the rosary. Then there had been the interruption of their daily routine, where they had all been called to the dining hall and Father Paul, Father Frank, and the mother superior had spoken in soft tones about Sister Camille and the tragedy that had happened here within these sacred walls. The outside world had invaded their piety and holiness, and the nuns were told to pray for Sister Camille’s soul and find their own sense of peace in the Holy Father’s arms.

“Remember,” Father Paul had intoned softly, his face lined with sadness, “you are the brides of Christ. He will help you through this time of confusion and loss.”

Father Frank’s eyes had squeezed shut for just an instant, as if he were shutting out a private vision.

Mother Superior had bowed her head and made the sign of the cross, but Lucia had felt no consolation from God as she remembered Sister Camille’s pale face and bloodless lips as she lay on the chapel floor.

She’d swallowed hard, and her eyes had met the tortured gaze of Father Frank, no longer in the cassock stained with blood. Had it been Sister Camille’s? Did he know that she was carrying his child?

Did Father Frank realize what Lucia knew?

As the heat of embarrassment climbed up her neck, she had looked away quickly, though the priest’s piercing gaze lingered in her mind.

She had only been vaguely aware of the rest of the meeting, though she recalled talk of the police leaving soon and the promise that the chapel where Sister Camille had been found would be cleaned and blessed.

As if prayer and holy water could cleanse the evil.