At the time Kristi had left for college, Bentz had thought All Saints would be a haven for her. With its fine academic reputation, purported easy access to one-on-ones with teachers, and a small student body, the school had seemed perfect. The campus itself was bucolic in appearance. Red brick buildings, stately trees, lush grass and winding paths seemed serene, and in the brochures that Bentz had poured over, he’d seen pictures of students and teachers in state-of-the-art classrooms, kids in lounges with guitars or in the library studying or in the quad gathered on blankets. Some of the photos had shown off the stately and dominant cathedral, the center of the complex, or a chemistry lab with a serious student studying the contents of a test tube. Later he’d found out that the studious serenity had been a façade for a growing evil that had pulsed beneath the academic surface. But none of that had surfaced until after Kristi had enrolled.

His jaw tightened at the memory, and he absently rubbed his hip, where he still bore a scar from the horrifying experience. While desperately trying to save his daughter from a killer terrorizing the college, he’d almost lost his own life. The pain lingering in his leg reminded him how much he despised All Saints. It hadn’t helped that today the dean of students had been less than cooperative. Not that Father Crispin wasn’t concerned; he just appeared to be more interested in protocol and the reputation of the campus than in finding the Denning twins. Oh, his brow had furrowed and he’d taken a few notes, but his interest had seemed polite. The dean obviously thought Bentz was jumping the gun.

Then again, hadn’t Bentz believed the same of Brianna Hayward when she’d pled her case in his office earlier in the day?

Drumming his fingers on the passenger door, he replayed the scene with the missing persons officer at the Baton Rouge Police Department. Bentz had certainly held more sway there than he had with Father Crispin, but really, things hadn’t been all that much better. The officer had pointed out that so far no known crime had been committed, which, of course, Bentz already knew. But the officer had insisted the wheels were in motion. Baton Rouge detectives had gained access to the dorm where the girls lived and, it seemed, from the state of things, had intended to return. No cell phones were found, nor iPads or other electronic tablets. No purses or keys.

Still, he was bothered. Big-time.

“You think it’s 21?” Montoya eased up on the speed a bit.

“Hope not.”

“You and me both. What’re the chances that 21 would show up around the same time Father John reappears?”

“Coincidence.”

Montoya sent him a look. “Thought you were the dude who didn’t believe in coincidences.”