Lucia was frantic. She had to do something! Anything! Please God, do not take her. Not now . . . not yet . . . Oh, Father!

“Help!” Lucia screamed again, unwilling to leave the friend she’d known so closely for a year, a woman she’d known of most of her life. She couldn’t be dying . . . couldn’t be . . .

Lucia’s mind was awash with images of Sister Camille, beautiful and lithe, with her secretive smile and eyebrows that would arch to show amusement or disbelief. A troubled woman, yes, a nun with far too many secrets, one she’d met long ago before they’d independently decided to take their vows.

Throat closing, she whispered, “It’s not your time, Camille. You hear me? Don’t leave . . . don’t you . . .”

But the poor, tortured woman was gone, her spirit rising from the lifeless shell that was her body. Stolen from her.

“No . . . please . . . Father—”

Thud! Somewhere a door banged shut as the bells pealed again.

Lucia jumped.

Someone was coming!

Good. “Just hold on,” she said to the ashen body, though she knew intuitively that it was too late. “Help is coming.” Her words hung in the chill night air.

Lucia felt a shiver slide down her spine as doubt clouded her mind. She linked her fingers through those of her friend and sent up another desperate prayer as the church bells in the steeple continued to toll off the hours.

Was help really on the way?

Or was the person who had done this to Camille returning?

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

Val was calmer now, the quivering of her insides having subsided.

She filled her favorite, chipped mug with hot water, set it in the microwave, and watched as hidden letters appeared. The heavy cup, bought online at ABC.com, displayed the cast members of Lost, her once-favorite television show.

It had been a Christmas gift from Camille, a treasure she’d bought before the show had aired its final episode.

Back in the days when they hadn’t let anything drive a wedge between them. Not even Slade Houston.

“Oh, Cammie,” she whispered, shaking her head at their own ridiculous fights as the microwave dinged. Gingerly gripping the cup’s handle, she scrounged the last tea bag from a box and dunked the decaffeinated leaves into the near-boiling water.

Though it was midnight, sleep, for Valerie, was still hours away, if at all possible. What was it Slade had always said? That her insomnia was one of the reasons the department had kept her on; she was a workaholic who, because of her inability to sleep, could work sixteen hours straight while being paid for eight.

Then again, Slade was known to exaggerate.

Part of his ridiculous cowboy humor.