Val took one last glance through the bars to the garden, but found it empty.

Yet, as she looked at the interior of the convent one last time, she felt that same eerie sensation that had plagued her earlier. Her eyes lifted to the buildings that rimmed the cloister, catching a flicker of movement on an upper balcony. Someone lingered in the doorway, a blurry figure dressed in black that melted backward into the shadows.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

She blinked.

And all was still on the balcony. Strange . . .

She reminded herself this was a convent, a holy place. And yet, that eerie sense that a predator was watching . . . She shoved her wayward thoughts aside, told herself she was just imagining things, that she was spooked because of Camille’s murder.

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 18

Obviously disbelieving, Cruz glared at his older brother. “Lucia Costa is a nun at St. Marguerite’s?” he repeated incredulously. They were seated at a booth in a small restaurant not far from the police station, Cruz on one side of the table, Montoya on the other. The place was clean enough with a variety of salads and sliced, preserved meats on display behind the windows of a long counter. The smell of an overused fryer permeated the air, the odor tossed around by a few slow-moving overhead fans. “She’s here”—Cruz pointed at the tabletop with one finger—“in New Orleans?”

“Uh-huh.” As Montoya took a bite of his po’boy, his gaze skated from his brother to the glass door of the establishment. People passed underneath the striped awnings, moving slowly in the afternoon heat.

“That’s a pisser.”

“If you say so.”

Cruz had always been a wild card, Montoya thought, then decided that wasn’t as strange as it sounded. All his siblings, sisters and brothers, had been known to raise their share of hell while growing up.

Over six feet, Cruz had Montoya by a couple of inches and was muscular rather than lean. His black hair brushed the collar of his jean jacket, and his eyes, dark as night, missed nothing. He’d spent a few years in the service after high school, then attended college while tending bar and driving trucks. Somewhere in the mix, he’d gotten a tattoo that was visible on his forearm and a license to be a PI. “Jack-of-all-trades, master of none,” he’d always quipped. With thick eyebrows and a nose that had been broken more than once, he’d never given up his bad-ass appearance or, it seemed now, attitude.

“You know, I looked for her. Like crazy. Right after the accident. Then things got weird with her father, and I gave it up. Looking down the barrel of a shotgun can have that effect on you.”

“Whoa, slow down. Start at the beginning.”