“Magistrate de la Vega,” I say before Kiki can stop me. She is always too cautious. The look she shoots me isn’t angry, but it is annoyed. But playing our cards close to the chest won’t get us anywhere with Mother Ines here. I know her type. No-nonsense. Best to be honest and see where that gets us.

And besides, my ass hurts from all the riding, and the sooner we get our answers the better.

“We found his books,” I continue, handing her the page from the ledger. “He had this convent marked off in his ledger next to what we believe is the name of a woman who was murdered. We want to know why.”

Mother Ines’s eyebrows inch upward to the white border of her veil as she looks closer at the torn page. Then, she shakes her head, biting back what I am sure is an unholy curse. “That damn fool. Putting everything in writing.”

“Why would he care about the convent?” Kiki asks. “What are you to him?”

“A place to hide the indiscretions of the rich and powerful.” Mother Ines snorts. “They like to feign piety, but you’ll never find a bigger group of sinners.”

“I thought judgment was reserved for God alone.”

Mother Ines barks a wry laugh. “I’m far too old to pretend I am without my own sins, girl.”

She seems to consider something. Then, she sighs. “Wait here. There is someone you ought to meet.”

We wait.

“What do you think?” I ask Kiki.

She just shrugs, sipping at her water. “I don’t know what to think. But I think we’re about to find out.”

Mother Ines returns, but she is not alone. A younger nun follows behind, eyes bowed, hands clasped demurely in front of her. She looks like a frightened animal, ready to run.

“Hello,” Kiki says, voice soft and kind. “What’s your name?”

The girl looks from me to Kiki and back again. Her head lowers, her face hidden by the stiff, voluminous fabric of her veil.

The prioress places a hand on the girl’s shoulder. The gesture is so maternal in nature, it makes me wonder if she had always been a nun. Perhaps she led a different life once, long ago. Perhaps she had children of her own.

“Sister Catalina is the name she uses now. The name she was born with she has cast aside. It brought her nothing but pain and grief and sin.”

I peer at the girl’s face. As if she can sense my gaze on her, she lifts her face, just enough for our eyes to meet. “Was that name Juana?”

A slow, shallow nod is her only response.

“She is part of the reason Magistrate de la Vega donates so generously to us,” Mother Ines says. “It is to pay for her care.”