She led the tall woman toward her office and, once inside, sat at her desk, unlocked a big drawer, and retrieved the staffing schedule. As Zita had said, Sister Camille was scheduled the next day at St. Elsinore’s orphanage, which was actually across Lake Pontchartrain and closer to Slidell than New Orleans. A place dear to Charity’s heart. She hated to see the orphanage’s venerable old doors closing, but it was already decided, the move in progress.

“Let’s see . . . Yes, either Maura or Devota should be available. They both work there fairly regularly. Lucia . . . let’s leave her out of it. She’s been through enough in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Zita said.

“Good.” Then, automatically, “Bless you, my child.”

Zita left, and once again, Sister Charity was alone in her office, the picture of the current Pope and the crucifix her only solace. In so many ways, these were troubling times. Much earlier, when she was a young novitiate, before Vatican II, things were so much easier to understand. Rigid, yes, but there was no blurring of lines, no question of what was expected.

Now . . . now nothing, it seemed, was clear.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

There was no way Val could just go about her normal life.

Nothing about it will ever be normal again, a voice nagged at her as she walked out the back door of her little cottage and slid into her Subaru. The interior was hot; she felt as if she were climbing into an oven, and her air-conditioning was sporadic at best. She started the car, buckled up, and cranked open the window to capture any trace of cool air.

Slade was still at the house—or at least his truck was still parked where he’d left it—but she’d deal with him later.

Right now she had things to do.

She planned on dropping off copies of the e-mails she’d received from Camille at the police station. Just after she had a heart-to-heart with Father Frank O’Toole, that miserable, lying son of a bitch.

“Val!” Slade’s voice chased after her as she pulled out of the short driveway and onto the street. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him striding toward his truck.

She hesitated, then ignored him. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with him, nor even, for that matter, a discussion. She didn’t slow down until she reached St. Charles Avenue. There, she eased into the flow of traffic, navigating around a streetcar with its cargo of tourists eyeing the gracious mansions set back from the tree-lined street, snapping pictures of the pastel Victorian with its widow’s walk and gingerbread details.