She mounted the tower steps and noticed a cobweb in a corner of the leaded-glass panel window, as if it were there to remind her she’d been neglecting her basic duties. The gate key would be just inside. She seldom bothered with the gate and most often came and went by way of the meditation garden, but she’d have sworn she’d left it unlocked. Perhaps, she thought, it was just as well she had this time to think after seeing Emma. She was the same Emma Sharpe as ever and yet she’d changed. Of course, she’d come as an FBI agent, not as a friend.

Sister Joan pushed on the heavy, varnished oak door and paused, thinking she’d heard a sound. She couldn’t tell if it was behind her or in front of her in the tower.

Was it just the creak of the door? Had she picked up a rock in the sole of her shoe that was now scraping on the stone step?

She stifled a flash of annoyance. Had Emma ignored her instructions and refused to wait by the gate?

She glanced behind her but saw no one on the lawn or in the trees back toward the fence. She heard only a distant seagull and the wash of the tide.

A window rattling in the strong breeze, maybe.

No matter. She’d grab the gate key and head straight to Special Agent Sharpe.

Involving Emma was an enormous risk if, in fact, the convent turned out to be even an unwitting partner in a scandal or, worse, illegal activity. Emma wouldn’t cover for anyone, nor would Sister Joan ask her to, no matter how sorely tempted she might be. She simply wanted answers.

Had the Sisters of the Joyful Heart—had Mother Linden herself—helped hide an original Rembrandt?

Had they stood back as a troubled woman self-destructed?

Had they kept her secret for the past forty years?

Not actively, Sister Joan thought, ignoring the noise and pushing open the door wider. Passively, naively, accidentally, perhaps—unable to see what was happening in front of them.

Or because they’d been duped by wrongdoers.

She would like nothing better than for Emma to assure her that all was well and any suspicion to the contrary was an overreaction.

Holding the door open with her left elbow and foot, Sister Joan reached for the gate key on a hook to her right.

There it is again.

Definitely a scraping sound coming from inside the tower—wet gravel, possibly, grinding against the stone tile floor. The tower had no alarm system but it was surrounded by the fence and the cliffs, making access by outsiders difficult.

“Emma? Is that you?”

Sister Joan didn’t like the fear she heard in her voice. This was her home. She’d never been afraid here.

She clutched the key, her foot still in the door. “Sister Cecilia?”