They wouldn’t now, she thought, reaching for the door handle. She would get Emma and tell her everything. Then they could decide what to do next.

She heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the tile floor behind her.

Of course it would be one of the other sisters. Who else could it be? A sister had come into the tower, seen a painting out of place, moved it to safety and now was returning to the entrance.

Sister Joan opened the door. “Sister,” she said, “I’m here—”

The door was kicked shut, the sharp thrust throwing her off balance. She stumbled, the key flying out of her hand as she lurched forward against the hard oak door.

Sister Joan cried out in prayer, even as the blow struck the back of her head.

Three

Sister Joan’s few minutes to return with the key were dragging on. Emma yanked impatiently on the gate, but the lock held firm.

Never mind the key, and never mind the meditation garden.

She wasn’t willing to wait any longer.

The fastest route to the tower was up and over the fence. The gate itself looked too rickety and would land her on the stone walk. She stepped into the garden, grabbed a cold, wet vertical iron bar in each hand and climbed onto the lower rail. The old fence creaked and groaned but held firm as she hoisted herself up to a middle rail and then launched over the top rail, grateful she didn’t have to dodge ornamental spikes.

She jumped down onto the grass, landing in a crouch, and sprang upright next to a simple, graceful copper angel that stood sentry in the fog.

Still no Sister Joan returning with the gate key.

Emma cut back onto the stone walk and followed it to the tower. A sharp breeze tasted of salt water as she stopped at the bottom of the steps. The door was shut tight. If Sister Joan hadn’t found the key, she could be returning through the meditation garden, and that was why she was taking so long. Emma peered into the near-impenetrable fog, noticing a movement across the lawn, past wild-growing rugosa roses at the edge of the rocks that led straight down to the ocean.

“Sister Joan,” she called. “It’s Emma.”

There was no answer, no further movement.

Emma was aware of her .38 snug in its strap just above her ankle. She had no reason to draw a weapon. During her three years with the FBI, she’d never fired a gun outside a training facility, but she knew what to do.

The wind whipped more salt water and drizzle in her face as she crossed the wet grass. A narrow path, no more than ten inches wide, led through the roses to the tumble of boulders that marked the boundary between ocean and land.