“Absolutely. I’ll be right back, and you can tell me what happened this morning.” She hopped off the rail and walked inside while Val, drained, thought about what she’d accomplished. It all added up to a great big zero. Father Frank had given her nothing, the mother superior hadn’t wanted to talk, and she’d missed Detective Montoya when she’d left the e-mail with his partner, who had been mum on the subject of Camille. And then there was Slade. . . . Oh, hell, how did she even begin to deal with him?

The pain and humiliation she’d felt two years ago came back in a wild rush with its own brand of familiar heartache. Now, looking back, she realized it had been a matter of “he said/she said,” and she’d trusted her sister that Slade had not just come on to her, but also had actually, at Christmastime, slipped into her room and her bed. According to Camille, “nothing had really happened,” but she’d said it so hesitantly, Val had doubted it. Seeds of suspicion had been planted and had quickly taken root. Slade had always liked Camille, and they had flirted. Oh, God, what was the point? It was over now. She was divorcing her husband and her sister was dead. Twisting her glass in her hands, watching the ice cubes dance, she wondered if she’d been too harsh on her sister, too rash with her husband, too damned ready to believe the worst.

The cop in you.

Yeah, well, that part of her life was over, too. She’d quit being a detective when she’d left Texas. At least officially. Until now.

Old habits die hard. Especially when your own sister is murdered.

Frank O’Toole had to be the killer.

Who else?

Her gut instinct told her to look no further.

Her head reminded her to see past the obvious.

She thought of her sister. Cammie had been troubled, no doubt about it. Though she hadn’t heard all the details of her sister’s death, she’d been told enough to convince her that Camille’s murder hadn’t been a random act. The bridal gown—had that been Cammie’s idea? Had someone else dressed her? Someone close to her? Her night-clothes had been in her room. Everything she knew about her sister’s murder made her think that someone close to Cammie had killed her.

She just needed to figure out who and prove it. Fast. Hours were ticking by, and it was a known fact that if a homicide wasn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours after commission, the chances of solving the case were cut in half.

Which meant it was time to pin down O’Toole. Though she had almost believed the priest when he’d said he’d been in love with Camille, she still felt as if he could have killed her.

An act of passion.