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    Devious
    Devious
    Devious
    Ebook605 pages10 hours

    Devious

    By Lisa Jackson

    3.5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    • Religion

    • Mystery

    • Investigation

    • Secrets & Lies

    • Family

    • Amateur Detective

    • Dark Past

    • Whodunit

    • Forbidden Love

    • Dark & Stormy Night

    • Small Town Secrets

    • Haunted Protagonist

    • Haunted House

    • Haunted Detective

    • Secrets From the Past

    • Secrets

    • Murder Investigation

    • Suspense

    • Betrayal

    • Fear

    About this ebook

    A serial killer targets New Orleans nuns in this “nail-biting tale of dangerous secrets and deadly passions” by the #1 New York Times bestselling author (Booklist).

    When New Orleans detective Reuben Montoya is called to investigate the murder of a nun, he's shocked to recognize the victim. Sister Camille was his high school girlfriend. And she’s just been found on the altar of St. Marguerite's cathedral…viciously garroted.

    Before devoting herself to god, Camille had a knack for making bad choices. She joined the convent after falling for her sister Valerie’s soon-to-be ex-husband. But as Val—a former Texas cop—digs into Camille's murder, she realizes how little she really knew about her sister and their shared past.

    As more women of the church are found brutally slaughtered, no one is beyond suspicion—not even Friar Francis O’Toole. And no one is safe—least of all Valerie. Because this killer knows all, forgives nothing, and will not rest until Valerie becomes the next to pay for her sins.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZebra Books
    Release dateOct 24, 2011
    ISBN9781420127911
    Author

    Lisa Jackson

    When asked what has inspired her to write more than 50 novels brimming with adventure, intrigue, hot passion, and high emotion, bestselling Oregon author, Lisa Jackson gets a mischievous smile on her face. Then the words flow as fast as her fingers fly on her computer keyboard when she writes. Her eyes sparkling with memories, she tells stories of her youth, stories of a Huckleberry Finn childhood in the small lumber town of Molalla and on her grandparents' nearby farm in the hilly region of western Oregon. There in the old growth timber, Lisa rode bareback and raced along the ages-old sheep, cattle and deer trails. In the nearby river, she skinnydipped and caught crawdads in her bare hands. An inventive child, she sneaked out of the house and rode her bicycle or horse in the moonlight and dreamed up childish pranks that would have done Tom Sawyer proud. "Nobody could have had a better childhood," Lisa remarks, her twinkling eyes and got-away-with-something-grin giving her a youthful appearance that defies the fact that she is in her mid-40s and the mother of two college-age sons. "My childhood was enchanted. We were a small, tightly knit family. My mum and dad were and still are my greatest supporters." Why then does Lisa write lousy dads and conniving relatives into the plots of books that regularly earn berths on such national bestseller lists as USA Today's and Waldenbooks'? "I think the deepest angst people can experience is what can develop among family members, because our emotions run so deep there," Lisa replied. "Deep down, we care about these people, but being related doesn't mean we think alike or want the same things. I also think manipulative people are fascinating. Characters like those help me to keep the readers' interest. I love it when readers write me to complain that they didn't get any sleep the night before because they had to finish my book." Lisa studied English Literature at Oregon State University for two years before she married. In 1981, when her younger son was a year old, she began writing novels. But she decided she needed a steady income and landed a nine-dollar-per-hour bank job. Before she could begin work, however, her supervisor was arrested for embezzling. "About then I sold my first book, A Twist of Fate, which — guess what! — was about a woman suspected of bank embezzling. It was purely coincidental. The story came out of my background in banking," Lisa provided. "But I guess you could say, if not for a bank embezzler, I might not have made it as an author." In addition to suspenseful contemporary page-turners, Lisa also delivers medieval romances set in eleventh and twelfth century Wales. "I enjoy doing these medieval period pieces, because women were so trod upon then. By nature of their lot in life, I can generate empathy or sympathy for the medieval heroines. They're underdogs from the get-go. Tell me what woman doesn't root for the underdog!" Britannia Roads, a creative Lansing, Michigan tour packager, read the first in Lisa's medieval trilogy and loved her writing so much that she designed a tour of Wales, with Lisa as the featured guest. Tour members will visit some of Princess Diana's favourite places to stay in Ruthin Castle. They'll be in for a treat when Lisa regales them with author stories during the tour, for she is as talented at public speaking as she is at writing novels. When not writing, Lisa enjoys spectator sports, reading, watching The X-Files and socialising now that she's a single mum. Her favourite authors include Pat Conroy, Nelson DeMille, Stephen King, Patricia Cornwell, Dick Francis, and other authors who also write compelling page-turners.

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    Reviews for Devious

    3.5/5

    92 ratings11 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Devious is the 7th book in Lisa Jackson's New Orleans Series. It is the first I read and I had no problem following the story. It features Detective Reuben Montoya and his partner, Rick Bentz. It is quite dark and scary with a serial killer on the loose.

      The story starts with a bang. There is a terrible murder in a chapel at St. Marguerite's Convent. It is Sister Camille, a novice nun with a rather troublesome past. When Montoya and Bentz arrive at the crime scene, Montoya realized he knew the victim, in fact, they dated in high school. Not only that, but the nun who discovered the body, dated his brother and the suspect in the murder, Father Frank O'Toole was a friend of his growing up. Valerie Renard, Camille’s sister is dealing with her own problems while dealing with her estranged husband who has shown up from Texas and wants to reconcile. Of course, he shows up on the night of the murder and it was an issue between Camille and him that caused the estrangement in the first place. As more nuns become victims in rather gruesome ways, Valerie realized that these deaths may be linked to the orphanage, St Elsinore, where she and Camille lived before getting adopted. Is Mother Superior keeping secrets. What happened at St Elsinore's.

      The descriptions in this book are so detailed, I could picture the setting and the crime scenes. The plot had me hooked and I quickly read through this story trying to figure out what would happen next. Was Valerie going to become a victim? The suspense and tension will keep you glued and interested until the last page.
    • 4/5

      The proprietors at Roma’s Preread Books, in Rockwall, TX were kind enough to give me an advance uncorrected proof to Devious in April. From the moment I picked up the book, I could not put it down.

      I have read many books by Lisa Jackson, but Devious: A Bentz and Montoya Novel is by far the best. The plot twists and turns, the characters have many facets, and the book does not rely on sex to fill in the gaps.

      Valerie Radnar, a one-time police detective, is now a woman torn by the actions of her sister and her husband. She returned to New Orleans in an attempt to put her life back together, only to be devastated once again when her sister, now a Catholic novice, turns up murdered. Her husband Slade returns the same night, and Valerie must deal with the confusion of having a husband she still loves, while trying to sort out the enigma of her sister, and the actions of a serial murderer at St. Marguerite. The plot thickens when detectives discover that many of the participants attended the same high school, and many spent time at St. Elsinore before their adoption. Add in crime scene elements related to a serial killer Detective Bentz hunted at some point in the past and a nun with ESP, and the story leaves the reader trying to find all the clues to piece the story together.

      A great read, diverting and positive. Thoroughly enjoyable, thank you Roma’s Preread Books.

    • 4/5
      Let me tell you this was a really good, if not great, example of romantic suspense. The action takes place in New Orleans with some familiar detectives at the helm, Montoya and Bentz. As with previous stories involving these members of New Orleans finest, there is some personal interest.Montoya dated the first murder victim, Camille Renard, back in high school. If that's not personal enough, his younger brother Cruz dated the lady that found that body. What makes this all the more interesting is that both ladies are now nuns. Camille's sister, Valerie, is shocked over the murder especially since she knew that Camille was planning on leaving the church due to a pregnancy. What is even more surprising, is that Sister Camille was evidently having a relationship with one of the priests? Is it possible that Father Frank is the murderer? Both the Catholic Church and New Orleans have been hit hard in recent years, but can the Church survive a murder spree of nuns and novitiates that all appear to have had relations with one of its priests? There's a lot more going on that meets the eye with this story. The heat gets turned up a notch when Cruz Montoya returns to New Orleans and tries to restart a relationship with Sister Lucia. The heat gets even hotter when Valerie's estranged husband, Slade Houston, shows up on the very night that Camille is murdered. Slade's presence forces Valerie to re-evaluate her belief in her sister's word, namely that Slade attempted to seduce her rather than vice versa. (Hard to believe that someone so focused on sex that she’s willing to attempt seducing her brother-in-law wanted to be a nun? Oh yeah, that probably explains her pregnancy and affair with the priest!) Thankfully there's a diary that reveals almost as much as it hides.The twists and turns in this story are just as devious as the actions of the murderer. Just when you think you know who the culprit is or where the story is going there's another unexpected twist to shake things up and keep you guessing. It is for these reasons that I enjoyed reading Devious. If you're into romantic suspense or just suspense then this is probably a good book for you.
    • 3/5
      “Devious” is a page-turning murder mystery that follows two detectives as they investigate the murders of nuns from the St Marguerite Convent in New Orleans. Besides the detectives, a former cop, Valerie is also looking into the murders since one of the nuns was her sister.

      Lisa Jackson’s finely detailed writing places readers into the thick of New Orleans and the hunt for a murderer. She teases you with small narrations from the murderer and the curious clues left behind from the victims. For each answer or clarification you think you get there is more hiding in the shadows.
    • 4/5
      Lisa Jackson is fast becoming one of my favourite authors, plain and simple. Devious is only the second novel of hers that I have read, and while I did not enjoy it as much as Without Mercy, I love her writing style and her ability to maintain suspense over 400 pages. Some may feel that the novel is longer than necessary and although there is some agreement from me there, the rich back story allows you to get to know the characters and develop an understanding and appreciation for the issues they deal with.

      The novel opens, as so many do, with a gruesome murder scene. A young nun in New Orleans, Camille, has high hopes for the festivities of the evening, but her night goes horribly wrong when she is brutally killed in a church. On the other side of town, her older sister Valerie is battling her own demons, but can’t shake an eerie feeling that all is not well with her sister. Estranged after Camille and Valerie’s soon-to-be-ex husband Slade had a ‘moment’ together, the two women had recently attempted to reconcile their differences. Both adopted from orphanage St. Elsinore’s after their biological parents were killed, Val had softened towards her sister once Camille told her she was pregnant and ready to leave the convent. However, the promise of a brighter future is shattered when two detectives (Jackson’s long-standing duo Bentz and Montoya) arrive with the horrible news that Camille has been murdered.

      Camille was a nun at the rigid and orthodox St. Marguerite’s, a parish with some dark secrets. The prime suspect is Father Frank O’Toole, a handsome young priest who seems to find the celibacy gig a bit tough. He seems to be the man with everything to lose, but as Bentz and Montoya dig into the history of St. Marguerite’s, they start to think something far more sinister is at work behind the walls of the parish. When another nun is found dead, the pressure is on the detectives to make some progress to catch the sadistic killer. Another victim turns up, with a creepily similar MO from a serial killer who is presumed dead (from Jackson’s previous novel Hot Blooded), and the detectives must re-assess everything they thought they knew about the case and the terrifying killer known as Father John.

      Full of mystery, secrets, and revelations, Devious takes a little perseverance to get in to, but once you’re there, it gets you good. Jackson is a master at leaving you hanging right till the very last page, and while this book didn’t wrap up as neatly as others have (there are quite a few loose ends), I will eagerly await her next Bentz and Montoya novel as I firmly believe a writer of her calibre wouldn’t leave ends loose unless they were to be tidied up in the future.
    • 5/5
      What a great book. Kept me on my toes. You think it is this person , then nope .Then you think it is that person . Nope. Lets just say the ending was quite a surprise.... Enjoyed the book .
    • 3/5
      It was a good enough tale - would be a great beach read if there was a beach near me - but there were a few situations where I just found it hard to believe that Val would react in that way. Not a bad book at all, but (in my humble opinion) it just didn't blow me away. Not that they all should, of course. But a little breeze would be nice.
    • 4/5
      This book was pretty good.. I'm a fan of all of her books for the most part.. Although why she likes to make her make characters all seem to have "blade thin lips" I just don't get it.. I'm also not a fan of a whole lot of tongue rubbing the roof of my mouth.. But I do at least find the sex scenes amusing..

      I was surprised to find out who the killer was.. As I so often am in Lisa Jackson's books... Left a cliffhanger too of course! And I was pleased to see there will be more of Bentz and Montoya in the future if we are to believe the authors note in the back..

      I find I really enjoy the images I get in my head when she describes the setting.. The little touches she adds in - while some may find these tedious and tend to go on too long.. While I get what they mean - I always like the fact that I get the whole picture!

      I also found that for some reason reading about the nuns - reminded me of a mini-series I had seen in the early 90's.. Called Brides of Christ. It was an Australian series and a young Naomi Watts played one of the girls who attended the school taught by the nuns. Also the then unknown Russell Crowe makes an appearance in one episode!! So I happily revisited the series again and thoroughly enjoyed it!!

      And as always with this series I love the New Orleans setting.. I find myself wanting to find more books about... MURDER SEX RELIGION and NEW ORLEANS!!! (Or someplace else in the South) although typing that into Google really doesn't bring up what I was hoping for.. So if anyone reads this and does know of any books that have similar subject matter?? Let me know!!! And FYI.. I'm currently reading all of Lisa Jackson's books in order by series.. I have them all!! Thank my mom for the years worth of hand me downs!! So if you were going to suggest more of her books.. I'm already on it!!

      Thanks for reading!! Take care all!!
    • 4/5
      I enjoy Lisa Jackson's writing. It makes you turn the page to see what happens next.
    • 4/5
      Fun to listen to! Someone is strangling novice nuns in Jackson's terrifying if overwrought seventh Bentz and Montoya novel (after Malice). When NOPD homicide detectives Reuben Montoya and Rick Bentz arrive at the first crime scene, the chapel of St. Marguerite's Convent, Montoya recognizes the murder victim, Sister Camille, as his old high school girlfriend, Cammie Renard. In another coincidence, the novice sister who discovered Camille's body, Lucia Costa, once dated Montoya's brother. On top of that, one of the prime suspects is a high school classmate of Montoya's, Fr. Francis O'Toole, who may have had an affair with the victim. As Cammie's sister, Valerie, a former Texas cop now a New Orleans Garden District B&B owner, struggles with a surprise visit from her estranged husband, more nuns succumb to a crazed killer. Val learns more than she bargained for about her past—and Cammie's—at a nearby orphanage in a creepy thriller sure to please Jackson's many fans. (Apr.)
    • 5/5
      Great story I love how it was given. Good job writer! If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star just submit your story to hardy@novelstar.top

    Book preview

    Devious - Lisa Jackson

    CHAPTER 1

    "It’s time." The voice was clear.

    Smiling to herself, Camille felt a sublime relief as she finished pushing the last small button through its loop. She stared at herself in the tiny mirror and adjusted her veil.

    You’re a vision in white, her father said.

    But he wasn’t here, was he? He wasn’t walking her down the aisle. No, no, of course not. He’d died, years before. At least that was what she thought. But then her father wasn’t her father . . . only by law. Right? She blinked hard. Woozy, she tried to clear her brain, wash away the feeling of disembodiment that assailed her.

    It’s because it’s your wedding day; your nerves are playing tricks on your brain.

    Your groom awaits. Again, the voice propelled her, and she wondered if someone was actually speaking to her or if she was imagining it.

    Silly, of course it’s real!

    She left the small room where she’d dressed and walked unsteadily along the shadowed corridor, lit by only a few wavering sconces. Dark, yet the hallway seemed to glisten.

    Down a wide staircase with steps polished from thousands of feet scurrying up and down, she headed toward the smaller chapel where she knew he was waiting.

    Her heart pounded with excitement.

    Her blood sang through her veins.

    What a glorious, glorious night!

    One hand trailed down the long, smooth banister, fingertips gliding along the polished rail.

    Hurry, a harsh voice ordered against her ear, and she nearly stumbled over the dress’s hem. You must not keep him waiting!

    I won’t, she promised, her voice reverberating from a distance, as if echoing through a tunnel. Or only in her head.

    She picked up her skirt to move more quickly, her feet skimming along the floor. She felt light, as if floating, anticipation urging her forward.

    Moonlight washed through the tall tracery windows, spilling shadowed, colored patterns on the floor, and as she reached the chapel, her legs wobbled, as if she were wearing heels.

    But her feet were bare, the cold stone floor penetrating through her soles.

    Poverty, chastity, obedience.

    The words swirled through her brain as the door to the chapel was opened and she stepped inside. She heard music in her head, the voices of angels rising upward through the spires of St. Marguerite’s Cathedral on this, her wedding day.

    Night . . . it’s night.

    Candles flickered at the altar, and overhead a massive crucifix soared, reminding her of Christ’s suffering. She made the sign of the cross as she genuflected, then slowly moved forward.

    Poverty. Chastity. Obedience.

    Her fingers wound around the smooth beads of her rosary as the music in her head swelled.

    As she reached the altar, the church bell began to toll and she knelt before the presence of God. She was ready to take her vows, to give her life to the one she loved.

    Good . . . good . . . perfect.

    Camille bowed her head in prayer, then, on her knees, looked up at the crucifix, saw the wounds on Christ’s emaciated body, witnessed his sacrifice for her own worldly sins.

    Oh, yes, she had sinned.

    Over and over.

    Now she would be absolved.

    Loved.

    Forever.

    Closing her eyes, she bent her head with difficulty. It seemed suddenly heavy, her hands clumsy. The chapel shifted and darkened, and the statuary, the Madonna and angels near the baptismal basin, suddenly stared at her with accusing eyes.

    She heard the scrape of a shoe on the stone floor, and her lightheartedness and joy gave way to anxiety.

    Don’t give in. Not tonight . . .

    But even her wedding dress no longer seemed silky and light; the fabric was suddenly scratchy and rough, a musty smell wafting from it.

    The skin on the back of her neck, beneath the cloying veil, prickled with anxiety.

    No, no, no . . . this is wrong.

    So now you know, the voice so near her ear reprimanded, and she shrank away from the hiss. For the wages of sin are . . .

    Death, she whispered.

    Sheer terror curdled her blood. Oh, God! Scared out of her mind, Camille tried to scramble to her feet.

    In that instant, Fate struck.

    The rosary was stripped from her hands, the beads ripping over her fingers and flesh, only to scatter and bounce on the floor.

    Camille tried to force her feet beneath her, but her knees were weak, her legs suddenly like rubber. She tried to stand, pushing herself upright, but it was too late.

    A thick cord circled her throat and was pulled tight.

    NO! What is this?

    Needle-sharp shards cut deep into her flesh.

    Panic surged through her.

    No, no, no! This is all wrong.

    Help me!

    White-hot pain screamed through her body. She jerked forward, trying to throw off her attacker as her airway was cut off. She tried to gasp but couldn’t draw a breath. Her lungs, dear Jesus, her lungs strained with the pressure.

    Oh, God, what was happening?

    Why?

    The nave seemed to spin, the high-domed ceiling reeling, the monster behind her back drawing the deadly cord tighter.

    Terror clawed through her brain. Desperately, Camille tried to free herself, to kick and twist again, but her body wouldn’t respond as it should have. The weight against her back was crushing, the cord at her throat slitting deep.

    Blood pounded behind her eyes, echoed through her ears.

    Her fingers scrabbled at the cord around her neck, a fingernail ripping.

    Her back bowed as she strained.

    She fought wildly, but it was useless.

    Please, please, please! Dear Father, spare me! I have sinned, but please—

    Her feet slipped from beneath her.

    Weakly she flailed, her strength failing her.

    No, Camille. Fight! Don’t give up! Do not! Someone will save you.

    Her eyes focused on the crucifix again, her vision of Christ’s haggard face blurring. I’m sorry . . .

    She was suddenly so weak, her attempts frail and futile.

    Her strong body grew limp.

    Please, she tried to beg, but the sound was garbled and soft, unrecognizable.

    The demon who dared set foot in this chapel, the monster who had defiled this holy ground, held her fast. Pulling on the cord. Unrelenting. Strong with dark and deadly purpose.

    Camille’s lungs were on fire, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it would burst. Through eyes round with fear, she saw only a wash of red.

    Oh, Dear Father, the pain!

    Again, she tried to suck in one bit of air but failed. Her lungs shrieked. Brutal strength, infused by a cold, dark wrath, cinched the garrote still tighter.

    Agony ripped through her.

    Whore, the voice accused. Daughter of Satan.

    No!

    Eyes open, again she saw the image of Christ on the cross, a film of scarlet distorting his perfect face, tears like blood running from his eyes.

    I love you.

    The deluge of sins that was her life washed over her, quicksilver images of those she had wronged. Her mother and father, her sister, her best friend . . . so many people, some who had loved her . . . the innocents.

    This was her punishment, she realized, her hands falling from her neck to scrape down her abdomen and linger for a second over her womb.

    Zzzzt. Snap! A bright light flashed before her eyes; then all was dark.

    In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, wash my soul clean.... Forgive me, for I have sinned. . . .

    CHAPTER 2

    "Oh, for the love of St. Jude! Valerie clicked the ESCAPE key on her laptop again and again, as if she could punch the life back into the hand-me-down computer with its antiquated hard drive and mind of its own. Come on, come on!" she muttered between clenched teeth, then gave up, unable to turn the damned thing off without taking out the battery.

    That did it! Tomorrow she’d go computer shopping despite the dismal state of her bank account. She still had a little room on her credit card, but then, once she bought a new computer, it would be maxed out as well.

    The price of divorce, she told herself callously as she shoved the laptop onto the rumpled bedclothes. In her mismatched pajamas, she walked into the kitchen of the small carriage house and dipped her head under the faucet for a drink, then stared through the rain-spattered window at the uneasy New Orleans night.

    The air was thick with the coming of summer, sweat dampening her skin. She cranked open the window, allowing the dank smell of the slow-moving river to roll inside. Far away, the hum of traffic could be heard on the freeway, a steady rush that competed with the song of crickets and the low rumble of toads.

    Pealing forlornly, the bells of St. Marguerite’s struck off the hours of midnight.

    Inexplicably, Val’s skin crawled. Her cop instincts went into overdrive, and she felt, again, as if she were being watched, that hidden eyes were assessing her.

    Too many nights with the sci-fi channel, she told herself. Too many nightmares.

    For a fleeting second, a splintered memory with sharp, brittle edges pierced her brain. Looming. Indistinct. But evil.

    Her blood chilled with the image. Draped in black, with cruel eyes and a foul odor, the sinister creature grew larger. Threatening. A chain dangling from its clawlike hand.

    No one could help her.

    No one could save her.

    Husssshhh, the creature hissed, lowering the silvery noose. Hush.

    Camille! Val thought in horror. This demon wants Camille.. . .

    In a blink, the horrifying image disappeared, shrinking into the corners of her mind. From experience, Val knew it would lurk there until, unbidden, it would rise again.

    Leave me alone, she muttered under her breath, ignoring the hairs that had risen on the back of her arm. The fiend was a figment of her imagination, nothing more—nothing a sane, stable woman would believe.

    Val took a steadying breath as the church bells of St. Marguerite’s continued to toll plaintively through the night. Her insides still cold, she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself and force the ugly apparition back where it belonged—into the darkest nether regions of her mind, into the crevices where sanity didn’t dare tread.

    Don’t go there, she warned herself silently. Do not go there. Dwelling on the insidious pictures in her mind would only create a self-fulfilling and hideous prophecy.

    Everything’s fine, she said out loud, though her insides were trembling. Quivering with a fear that she tried to keep hidden. No one could know. She was a strong woman. Nightmares or visions conjured by her willing brain weren’t allowed to scare her. For God’s sake, get a grip!

    Willing herself to let go of the counter and her ridiculous fears, she told herself she was just stressed out. Who wouldn’t be? An impending divorce, a lost career, a business teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, and a sister, her only sibling, intent on taking vows in a convent right out of the Middle Ages! And then there was the e-mail from Camille. Disturbing.

    Val thought about St. Marguerite’s, the historic cathedral where her sister would eventually take her vows.

    That is, if they let her.

    It still seemed so out of character for Camille, the party girl. Always with a boyfriend, always fending off trouble. From what she knew about St. Marguerite’s, Valerie doubted that her sister’s sins would be easily forgiven in that arena. St. Marguerite’s Convent, with its locked gates, antiquated communication system, and strict rules, seemed more like a medieval fortress than a house of God; it was an isolated place the rest of the twenty-first century had zipped past. The people within those hallowed walls harkened back to earlier centuries where archaic conventions, cruel discipline, and antediluvian opinions prevailed. Probably because of the abbess or mother superior or whatever that old bat Sister Charity called herself. A throwback to the days of wearing dark habits, rapping the knuckles of unsuspecting students, and using threats and fear over praise, Sister Charity was as much a warden as she was a leader.

    Why Camille ever decided to take her vows at an institution as rigid as Saint Marguerite’s remained a mystery.

    No, it’s not. You know the reasons—you just can’t face them.

    Psssst!

    A whisper of evil skittered through Sister Lucia’s brain.

    Her eyes flew open to the blackness of her tiny room in the convent. Her skin crawled, and her mouth tasted of metal. Father in heaven, please let this just be the remnant of a bad dream, a nightmare that—

    Psssst!

    There it was again, that horrid precursor of what was to come. She tossed off the thin covers and slid to her knees, her nightgown puddling around her as she instinctively reached for her rosary draped over the metal bedpost. She made the sign of the cross with the crucifix and began to silently recite the Apostles’ Creed, her lips moving in the darkness, sweat collecting at the base of her skull. I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. . . . And she did believe. Fervently. Usually she found comfort in this ritual she’d learned in her youth. In times of stress or worry or need, she sought solace by running her fingers over the glossy beads and whispering the prayers that brought her closer to God.

    Pssst! Again the electric current that hissed beneath her skin brought sweat to her brow.

    Not here, oh, please . . . not in the convent! Her prayer was interrupted and she started over, squeezing her eyes shut, leaning into the thin mattress with her elbows, her brain thrumming.

    Once again she touched the crucifix to her forehead and began the succession of prayers that came so easily to her mind.

    This has to be a mistake, she thought wildly as the familiar words slipped over her lips. Since she’d entered St. Marguerite’s, intent on taking her final vows, she’d had no incidents, as her mother had called them. She’d thought she was safe here.

    I believe in—

    Psssst! Louder this time.

    The painful jolt cut through the darkness.

    Lucia sucked in her breath and dropped her rosary, her prayer again cut short. She stood, abandoning any attempt to forestall the inevitable. Walking barefoot over the hardwood floors, she sensed the tremor of trouble brewing as surely as a hurricane off the Louisiana coast. In her mind’s eye, she saw the chapel of this very parish and blinked against an onslaught of images.

    An indistinct face.

    Yellowed gown.

    Billowing dark robe.

    Twisted, deadly lips.

    A heavy door clicking as it closed.

    A bloody crucifix, crimson dripping from Christ’s sacred wounds.

    Death, a voice intoned over the raw static in her brain.

    She flew into the hall, which was dimly lit by scattered wall sconces, and descended the curving staircase. Her fingers trailing along the worn banister, she followed a predetermined path. Pale light passed through the dark panes of stained glass, the heat of the June day still lingering into night.

    Why? Lucia wondered frantically. Why now? Why here? It’s nothing . . . just a bad dream. All your fears crystalized, that’s all.

    Her heart pounding like an erratic drum, she turned toward the chapel, the smaller place of worship tucked behind the huge cathedral. With a sense of darkness propelling her forward, she pushed through double doors that parted easily and stepped into God’s house. The chapel was usually a place of light and goodness, forgiveness and redemption, but tonight she sensed that evil as dark as Satan’s soul lurked here, lying in wait.

    Father, please be with me. She dipped her fingertips in holy water and crossed herself as she entered the nave, where all of the images congealed. Red votive candles flickered, casting shadows that shifted on the stone walls. A massive crucifix was suspended from the arched ceiling over the altar where Jesus, in his agony, watched over the chapel.

    Instinctively, Lucia made the sign of the cross again. The thrumming in her brain turned into a throb.

    From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of movement—a dark figure in billowing robes disappearing through a door.

    Father? she called, thinking the person running from the chapel was a priest. The door clicked closed. Wait! Please . . . She started for the doorway. Father—Oh, no . . . Her voice left her as she glimpsed a flutter of gauzy white fabric, the scallop of lace undulating on the floor by the first row of pews.

    What?

    Her heart nearly stopped.

    The horrid, rapid-fire images that had awakened her seared through her brain again:

    Yellowed gown.

    Cruel lips.

    A door shutting as the church bells pealed.

    Just like before.

    The whisper of evil brushed the back of her neck again. She nearly stumbled as she raced forward, her bare feet slapping the cold stone floor, echoing to the high, coved ceiling.

    This can’t be happening!

    It can’t be!

    Stumbling, running, afraid of what she might find, she dashed to the front of the apse, to the altar and the glorious, now-dark stained-glass windows. The crucifix towered to the high ceiling, the son of God staring down in his pain.

    Oh, God! Lucia cried. Dios! Mi Dios!

    Horror shot up her spine.

    A crumpled form lay in front of the first row of pews.

    ¡No, por favor, Jesús. No, no, no!

    Her blood turned to ice at the sight of the body, supine near the baptismal font. Biting back a scream, Lucia fell to her knees near the bride dressed in a fragile, tattered wedding dress. A thin, unraveling veil covered her face.

    Lucia’s stomach wrenched as she recognized Sister Camille, her face pale, her lips blue, her eyes wide and staring through the sheer lace.

    Oh, sweet Jesus . . . Lucia gasped. She touched Camille’s still-warm flesh, searching for a pulse at the nun’s neck, where small bruises circled her throat. Her stomach threatened to spew. Someone had done this to Camille, had tried to kill her. Oh, God, was she still alive? Did she feel the flicker of a pulse, the slightest movement beneath Camille’s cooling skin? Or was it only a figment of her imagination?

    Camille, Lucia coaxed desperately, her voice cracking, "don’t let go, please. Oh, please . . . Mi, Dios!"

    The ringing bells overhead sounded like a death knell.

    She looked up. Help! Someone help me! Her voice rose to the rafters, echoing back to her. Please!

    To the near-dead woman, she whispered, Camille, I’m here. It’s Lucia. You hang in there.... Please, please . . . It’s not your time. . . . But someone had decided Camille needed to die, and despite her good thoughts, Lucia knew of one person who wanted Camille Renard to die.

    She whispered a quick prayer to the Father, praying with all her soul; then, tears filling her eyes, she bent close to Camille’s ear. Don’t let go. With her own gown, she tried to stop the spreading pool of blood coming from the wounds on Camille’s neck.

    Camille didn’t move.

    Pupils fixed.

    Skin ashen. Cooling.

    Blood flow slowed to nothing.

    Lucia was frantic. She had to do something! Anything! Please God, do not take her. Not now . . . not yet . . . Oh, Father!

    Help! Lucia screamed again, unwilling to leave the friend she’d known so closely for a year, a woman she’d known of most of her life. She couldn’t be dying . . . couldn’t be...

    Lucia’s mind was awash with images of Sister Camille, beautiful and lithe, with her secretive smile and eyebrows that would arch to show amusement or disbelief. A troubled woman, yes, a nun with far too many secrets, one she’d met long ago before they’d independently decided to take their vows.

    Throat closing, she whispered, It’s not your time, Camille. You hear me? Don’t leave . . . don’t you . . .

    But the poor, tortured woman was gone, her spirit rising from the lifeless shell that was her body. Stolen from her.

    No . . . please . . . Father—

    Thud! Somewhere a door banged shut as the bells pealed again.

    Lucia jumped.

    Someone was coming!

    Good. Just hold on, she said to the ashen body, though she knew intuitively that it was too late. Help is coming. Her words hung in the chill night air.

    Lucia felt a shiver slide down her spine as doubt clouded her mind. She linked her fingers through those of her friend and sent up another desperate prayer as the church bells in the steeple continued to toll off the hours.

    Was help really on the way?

    Or was the person who had done this to Camille returning?

    CHAPTER 3

    Val was calmer now, the quivering of her insides having subsided. She filled her favorite, chipped mug with hot water, set it in the microwave, and watched as hidden letters appeared. The heavy cup, bought online at ABC.com, displayed the cast members of Lost, her once-favorite television show.

    It had been a Christmas gift from Camille, a treasure she’d bought before the show had aired its final episode.

    Back in the days when they hadn’t let anything drive a wedge between them. Not even Slade Houston.

    Oh, Cammie, she whispered, shaking her head at their own ridiculous fights as the microwave dinged. Gingerly gripping the cup’s handle, she scrounged the last tea bag from a box and dunked the decaffeinated leaves into the near-boiling water.

    Though it was midnight, sleep, for Valerie, was still hours away, if at all possible. What was it Slade had always said? That her insomnia was one of the reasons the department had kept her on; she was a workaholic who, because of her inability to sleep, could work sixteen hours straight while being paid for eight.

    Then again, Slade was known to exaggerate.

    Part of his ridiculous cowboy humor.

    Twisting the kinks from her neck, she closed her eyes, and for a heartbeat, she saw her husband’s face again: strong, beard-shadowed jaw; crooked half-smile with teeth that flashed white against skin tanned from hours working under the brutal Texas sun; and eyes smoldering a deep, smoky blue. Slade Houston. Tough as old leather, all rough-and-tumble cowboy, sexy as all get-out and just plain bad news.

    So why was she thinking of him tonight?

    And last night and the one before that and . . .

    Idiot, she muttered under her breath as she willed Slade’s image to disappear. The bells had stopped ringing sometime in the past few minutes. Good. Silence. Peace.

    But the eerie sensation that something was very wrong tonight lingered, and she couldn’t help feeling on edge.

    Tomorrow.

    She’d visit Camille tomorrow, regardless of the Machiavellian methods that old bat Sister Charity tried to use to dissuade her. I’m sorry, but seeing your sister now is impossible. We have strict rules here, she’d told Val the last time she’d tried to visit Camille unannounced. Rules we abide by, rules sanctified by the Father.

    Yeah, right. If Sister Charity had any good intentions, Val had yet to see one. In Val’s opinion, the reverend mother was on a power trip fueled by self-importance and a skewed view of religion.

    Always a bad combination.

    And one, this time, Valerie intended to thwart come daybreak.

    The last tolling bell faded to the sound of footsteps emanating from beyond the chapel walls. Lucia’s skin crawled as she stared at the dead girl. She tried to pray but couldn’t find the words. Who had done this to Camille? Why? And the weird bridal dress, the ring of bloody drops around the neckline—what was that all about?

    She glanced to the side door that had shut just as she’d arrived, and her heart hammered. Someone else had seen Sister Camille on the chapel floor. Lucia had crossed paths with either Camille’s assailant or a witness to what had happened. Fear prickled the back of her neck as she wondered if help was on its way . . . or if the assailant was returning.

    Making the sign of the cross, Lucia turned toward the doorway and screamed at the top of her lungs. Help!

    The side door swept open, banging against the wall. Mother Superior, an imposing woman in a long black habit, hurried into the nave. Her graying hair, which was usually concealed by her veil, appeared fuzzy and disheveled. Sister Lucy! For the love of the Holy Mother, what’s going on? she demanded. Her skirts swished against the smooth floor, and her face was a mask of disapproval, her lips pinched. Suddenly realizing where she was, she paused to quickly genuflect at the crucifix and make the sign of the cross over her ample bosom.

    It’s Sister Camille . . . Lucia rose, her gaze still upon Camille’s body.

    What about . . . ? Oh! The mother superior dragged in a quick breath as she rounded the final pew. Saints be with us. Wide skirts swooshing, she ran to the victim’s side and dropped to her knees.

    It’s too late. She’s dead.

    But how? Why? Sister Charity whispered, as if she expected God to answer as she fussed over the corpse and said a quick prayer. Who would do this?

    I don’t know. Someone was here, before me, Lucia said, trying to separate fact from fiction, from the images that were real as opposed to those that had been conjured in her mind. I saw the door to the hallway close. Yes, yes, that was right. She pointed to the door that led to a back hallway. And . . . I think Sister Camille was alive at that point.

    The older nun touched Camille’s wrist and placed her ear next to Camille’s nose, listening for any sign of life. Lucia knew she would find none.

    What were you doing here, Sister Lucy? Mother Superior asked, addressing Lucia in her formal name—the saint’s name she had taken along with her vows.

    I, uh, heard something, Lucia lied, as she had so often in the past. No one here knew her secret, not even the priests to whom she confessed.

    Heard something? From your room?

    Yes, I was on my way to the bathroom.

    As if she realized this conversation could wait, the reverend mother, still kneeling at Camille’s side, ordered, Go find Father Paul. Send him here.

    Shouldn’t we call the police?

    The reverend mother closed her eyes as if seeking patience. Do as I say. After you send Father Paul, then go to my office and dial nine-one-one.

    But the police should be alerted first—

    Don’t argue! The best thing we can do for Sister Camille is to pray for her soul. Now, go! And if anyone else wakes up, send them back to their rooms! Her expression brooked no argument, and Lucia took off, walking rapidly through the very doorway where she’d seen someone exit. Send the other nuns back to their rooms? Cells, more likely. Or kennels. Like dogs. Oh, Lord, she knew she was not cut out to be a nun. Not with impure thoughts like these.

    Heart pounding, she closed the door behind her and took off at a dead run—heading straight to the reverend mother’s office. Let them punish her later, but right now she knew Camille was the priority. She pushed open the frosted-glass door and stormed into Sister Charity’s inner sanctuary.

    Everything was neatly placed on bookshelves that lined the room—books, candles, crucifixes, a healthy amaryllis with a heavy white bloom, and a solitary picture of the Pope. Lucia rounded the big, worn desk, where far too many times she had sat on one of the uncomfortable visitor chairs, her hands clenched in anxiety, as the mother superior had lectured her across the expanse of lacquered walnut. She reached for the telephone with its heavy receiver, a black dinosaur left over from the sixties or seventies, and dialed quickly, nervously waiting for the rotary dial to click into place.

    Nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your emergency? a woman’s voice answered.

    Sister Camille is dead! There was some kind of accident here at St. Marguerite’s Convent—no, in the chapel—and she’s dead! I . . . I think she was killed. Please, please send someone quickly! Her voice, already tremulous, was elevating with each word.

    What is the address?

    Lucia rattled off the street address and, when asked, her name and the phone number.

    What kind of an accident?

    I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe she was strangled. All I really know is that she’s dead, and the mother superior is with her now.

    A homicide.

    Oh, I don’t know! We need help. Please, please send help!

    We are. Officers have been dispatched. You need to stay on the line.

    I can’t . . . I have to tell Father Paul.

    Please, Miss Costa, do not hang up. Stay on the line—

    Ignoring the dispatcher, Lucia dropped the phone, letting it dangle as she took off at a full run through the back door of the office, one only Sister Charity used.

    Lucia’s heart was a drum as she sprinted through the dark hallways with their gleaming floors, down the stairs, and out the double doors to a courtyard. As if Lucifer himself were chasing her, she raced through the rain-splattered cloister and past a fountain. Wind scuttled across the flagstones, kicking up wet leaves and tugging at the sodden hem of her nightgown.

    She couldn’t tell anyone about how she was awakened so abruptly in the middle of the night. What would she say? Anyone who heard about the voice that directed her, the beast she’d somehow unleashed, would think she was certifiable. As she did herself. She figured that voice in her head was between her and God. No one else. Not even Father Paul or Father Frank. They might think she was possessed by a demon, and maybe she was, but she just didn’t want any attention drawn to her.

    It’s not about you! Camille is dead! Dead! Someone killed her and left her lifeless body in the chapel.

    And somehow the voice knew. And awoke her.

    Oh, it was all so disturbing.

    Through another door and under a dripping portico, she flew to Father Paul’s door, where she pounded desperately.

    Father! she cried, shivering in the pale glow of the priest’s porch light. Please! Father! There’s been . . . an accident!

    Over the drip of rain, she heard footsteps behind her, the scrape of leather against wet stones. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the shadows, a dark figure emerging through a garden gate. She gasped, stepped back, and nearly tripped on her own hem as a large man appeared, his face white and stern, his eyes sunken and shadowed in the night.

    Father Frank, she whispered, recognizing the younger priest. She had clasped her hand over her breasts and suddenly realized that the cool rain had soaked her cotton nightgown, which now pressed flush against her skin. The fabric clung to her body, hiding nothing in the watery light. There’s been an accident or . . . or . . . She swallowed hard, aware of the secrets that Sister Camille had shared. Secrets about this tall man standing before her. It’s Sister Camille, in the chapel.... She . . . she . . . And then she saw the blood leeching from his cassock, running in red rivulets onto the smooth, shimmering stones of the pathway.

    She’s dead, he said, his rough voice barely audible over the gurgle of rainwater in the gutters, his gaze tortured. And it’s my fault. God forgive me, it’s all my fault.

    CHAPTER 4

    "Still up?" Freya’s voice cut into her fantasy.

    Always. Val tried to ignore the worries about Camille. She tossed the tea bag into the sink and glanced over her shoulder toward the archway leading to the main house. When they’d bought this old inn, Val had been attracted to the small living space of the carriage house, while Freya took over the private quarters just off the main kitchen. Freya, all tousled reddish curls and freckles, appeared in shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She was cradling a cup with whipped cream piled so high it was frothing and running over the lip of her mug. Somehow, Freya managed to lick up the drip before it landed on the cracked linoleum.

    Freya was five-three and still had the honed body of the gymnast she’d been in high school and the metabolism of a girl twenty years her junior.

    You look like hell, Freya observed.

    Thanks.

    Really, you should try to sleep.

    If only. She turned and leaned her hips against the counter. Insomniacs R Us. The inability to sleep was something she and Freya shared in common.

    Freya toasted her friend. Mine is decaf. Though it doesn’t mean I’ll actually fall asleep anytime soon.

    I’ve got decaf, too. Something called ‘Calm.’ Val took an experimental sip. Hot water tasting of ginger and chamomile singed the tip of her tongue. It’s supposed to help you chill.... Wait a minute, let me see what exactly it’s guaranteed to do. She picked up the empty box and read the label. Oh, yeah, here it is. ‘Calm’s unique formula is guaranteed to ease the worries and cares of the world away with each flavorful swallow. With hints of ginger and jasmine, this chamomile blend will relax and soothe you.’

    Sure, Freya mocked, wrinkling her nose. "Soothe you? No way. Anyway, it sounds disgusting."

    No, just boring to fans of triple-caramel-chocolate-macchiatos with Red Bull chasers.

    Very funny. Freya couldn’t help but grin as she climbed onto one of the two café chairs near Val’s bistro table.

    A friend since eighth grade, Freya Martin had convinced Val to invest in this eight-bedroom bed-and-breakfast inn in the Garden District, a few blocks off St. Charles Avenue. Named the Briarstone House, the old Georgian had been minimally damaged during Hurricane Katrina, but the owners, Freya’s great-aunt and uncle, had decided they weren’t about to weather any more Category 5 storms. Actually, they didn’t want to see any Category 1, 2, 3, or 4 storms either.

    Auntie and Uncle had wanted out of the Gulf Coast, and fast.

    Freya had wanted in.

    She’d bought out Uncle Blair and Aunt Susie on a contract. Leaving most of the furnishings, they filled an RV and drove west, into the sunset, searching for a dry climate, new snowbird friends, and endless nights of card games and martinis.

    To Val, right now, her nerves on perpetual edge, that sounded like heaven.

    Valerie had been at a crossroads in her own life when Freya had asked her to become her partner. It hadn’t taken much to convince her that an investment in a creaking old Georgian manor—rumored to be haunted, no less—was the best idea in the universe. Especially since the inn was barely a mile as the crow flies from Camille and St. Marguerite’s.

    Since Freya and her live-in boyfriend had recently parted ways, Freya had decided she needed a business partner. She’d e-mailed Val with the details, and Val jumped on the opportunity.

    A deal was struck.

    The rest, as they say, was history.

    Some of it bad history.

    And now, with the gurgle of rain running through the gutters and the church bells now silent, Val wondered if she’d made the right decision. Again. And the eerie feeling that had been with her earlier still remained. Mentally shaking it off, she glanced at the window but, of course, couldn’t see the church spire in the dark.

    Okay, spill it. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Freya asked, eyebrows puckering. "Wait a minute, forget I asked. Something’s always wrong. Let me guess—it’s Slade."

    It’s not Slade, she said emphatically, and Freya rolled her eyes, not buying it.

    If you say so.

    "Trust me, it’s not Slade."

    It’s always Slade. We should talk about him.

    No way. Scowling, Val skewered Freya with her best don’t-go-there glare.

    Really, you should know that—

    We’ve been over this ground before. I don’t want to talk or think about him until I have to. In court.

    But—

    I’m serious, Freya. Slade’s off-limits. She really didn’t want to discuss her ex again. Especially not tonight, when she was feeling so off-center.

    Freya looked as if she was about to say something more but thought better of it. Fine. Just remember I tried.

    I will.

    Did he do something I don’t know about?

    Probably. Val lifted a shoulder. Who knows and who cares?

    Freya opened her mouth, but before she could bring up Slade’s name again, Val said, It’s Cammie, okay? I haven’t heard from her in over a week. The old timbers of the house creaked overhead, and for a second, Val thought she heard footsteps. The ghost again, she supposed. Freya thought the house was haunted; she didn’t.

    Hear that? Freya asked. Unlike Val, Freya was a believer in all things supernatural.

    The house settling.

    It settled two hundred years ago.

    Val rolled her eyes.

    Freya got the message. Okay, okay. You’re worried ’cause Cammie’s incommunicado. So what? I don’t hear from Sarah for weeks, and she’s my twin. If you believe all the twin literature, we’re supposed to be on the same wavelength and have some special—she made air quotes—spiritual connection. She rolled her eyes and took another sip. They say we formed a psychic bond from our time together in the womb. Somehow, Sarah never got the message.

    Val ran her thumb over the chipped ridge of her mug. But Cammie is different.

    Cammie is probably just busy. You know, doing what nuns do. Praying, doing penance, good deeds, whatever. Freya wiggled the fingers of her free hand as if to indicate there were a myriad of things keeping Cammie from communicating. Maybe she’s taken one of those vows of silence.

    Cammie? Val questioned. Gregarious, outgoing, flirty, over-the-top Camille Renard? You do remember her. Right?

    Oh, yeah. Freya bit her lip. Always in trouble.

    That hasn’t changed, Val admitted, the uneasy feeling returning.

    I know, that’s really the problem, isn’t it? Cammie just doesn’t seem cut out to be a nun. Another sip. Just like you weren’t cut out to be a cop.

    Val felt that same little bite that nipped at her when she thought about her career gone sour. She wanted to argue and defend herself, to tell Freya that she’d been a good cop, but the effort would have been futile. A gust of heavy wind slipped through the open window, rattling the blinds, reminding her how she’d screwed up. Well, I don’t have to worry about that now, do I?

    Hey, I didn’t mean—

    I know. She waved a hand in the air, as if swatting a lazy fly. Don’t worry about it. But it was a sore subject, one that burned a hole in her brain and kept her up at night. She slid the window down and caught a watery image of herself: pale and ghostly skin, cheekbones high and sharp, wide mouth turned down, and worried hazel eyes. Her curly auburn hair was scraped back into a drooping ponytail. God, she was a mess. Inside and out. Rain skewed her reflection as she latched the window tight. Anyway, you’re right. I do look like hell.

    Nothing seventy-two hours of sleep won’t cure.

    Val doubted it.

    Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?

    Just you.

    Then you should take it as gospel. Quit dwelling on Cammie, okay? So she’s doing the running-off-to-a-nunnery thing. It’ll pass. One side of Freya’s mouth lifted. I’m surprised she hasn’t already been thrown out.

    If you only knew, Valerie thought, sipping her tea and glancing out the window again into the thick night where the spire of St. Marguerite’s Cathedral was cloaked in darkness, invisible.

    Oh, God, Freya, if you only knew.

    Slade Houston squinted into the darkness. The tires of his old pickup hissed over the slick pavement, and the wipers were having one helluva time keeping up with the torrent as he drove across the state line into Louisiana. His old dog, Bo, a hound of indeterminate lineage, sat beside him, his nose pressed to the glass of the passenger window. Every once in a while, Bo cast a bald eye in Slade’s direction, hoping for him to crack the damned thing.

    Not tonight, boy, Slade said as he fiddled with the radio, which crackled from interference. He found a station playing an old Johnny Cash song, but the lyrics couldn’t keep his mind from returning to his reason for driving in the middle of the night. A fool’s mission, at least according to his brothers, Trask and Zane, who’d let him hear it while he was packing up the Ford just before dusk.

    Why the hell you want anything to do with that woman is beyond me, Trask, his middle brother, had muttered under his breath. Only gonna bring you grief.

    More grief, Zane, the youngest, had added.

    Not that Slade had asked for any advice as he’d loaded his pickup with a sleeping bag and duffel before whistling for Bo.

    Just take care of things. I shouldn’t be gone long, Slade had said as the dog, with his perpetual limp and gnawed ear, leaped into the cab. Slade had slammed the door shut and felt the heat of his siblings’ sullen glares.

    How long? Zane had asked.

    Don’t know yet. It depends.

    Just be smart, Trask had advised.

    Why start now? Slade had flashed a grin to lighten things up, but the joke had fallen flat. Neither brother had cracked the hint of a smile; they just glared at him with their jaws set.

    Great.

    That hadn’t been too much of a surprise. Neither one of them had liked Valerie before the marriage, and their opinions hadn’t changed much over the years.

    Slade had tried to let it drop as he climbed behind the wheel. Through the open window, he heard that crickets had taken up their evening chorus and saw the western hills had been silhouetted by the brilliant shades of orange and gold.

    Trask hadn’t been ready to give up the fight. You plan on bringing her back here with ya?

    Valerie? he said, just to get under his brother’s skin. As if there was anyone else. Don’t know yet.

    If ya do hook up with her again, Trask said, then you’re a bigger fool than I took ya for.

    She wouldn’t be willing, even if I asked. That was the truth.

    She’s bad news, Zane reminded him.

    Don’t I know it. But he’d cranked on the engine of the dusty rig anyway, executed a three-point turn in the gravel drive without a second look at the weathered two-story ranch house he’d grown up in, and hit the gas. He didn’t bother watching the setting sun light the sky ablaze behind the barns with their creaking wild-mustang weather vanes. His old Ford had bounced down the rutted lane, dried sow thistle and Johnson grass scratching the underbelly of the truck as it rolled past acres upon acres of fields dotted with cattle and horses, land he and his brothers had inherited from their father.

    A red-tailed hawk had swooped through the darkening sky as he drove past the old windmill that sat solitary and still in the dead air. A good omen. Right?

    He’d snapped on the radio, then turned the truck past the battered mailbox onto the county road. He drove through the small town of Bad Luck until he came to San Antonio, where he cruised onto I-10, the long strip of asphalt cutting dead east. He’d left his brothers, Texas, and the sun far behind him.

    To chase down a woman who didn’t want him.

    He had the divorce papers in the glove compartment of his truck to remind him of that sorry fact.

    CHAPTER 5

    The call came in not long after midnight.

    Montoya groaned as he rolled across the bed and answered his cell. While his wife, Abby, burrowed under the blankets, he kept his voice down and slid out of bed as he had a hundred times before. He was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. Odd hours and late-night calls were part of his job.

    What now? Abby asked, her voice muffled before she tossed the blankets off

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