Read Online Devious by Lisa Jackson - Free Book Online Page A

thrill from hanging out with a juvenile delinquent. The preppy and the rogue.
    O’Toole let out a long sigh. “You saw Sister Camille?” His hands clenched into fists, his thumbs rubbing his knuckles nervously.
    â€œYeah.” Montoya nodded. Camille’s image, in death, was branded into his memory. At some level, it would be with him for the rest of his life.
    â€œIt’s a shame,” the priest said, rolling his gaze to the ceiling, as if he could literally look to God for answers. O’Toole still possessed the striking physique Montoya remembered. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair and a few more lines near the corners of his eyes, and his nose wasn’t as straight as it had once been, but, in Montoya’s estimation, the signs of aging only gave Frank O’Toole a more mature and interesting appearance.
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me what happened?”
    Something flashed in the priest’s eyes. Regret? Anger? The start of a lie? “I wish I knew. I was out with a sick parishioner. Arthur Wembley. Stage-four lung cancer. I spent the evening with him and his wife, Marion. When I returned, I ran into Sister Lucia just outside Father Paul’s door. She was in a panic, asking us to come into the chapel.” His jaw tightened and his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. “We followed her”—his voice lowered to a whisper—“and found Sister Charity saying prayers over Camille’s body.” He cleared his throat. “The first officer and the EMTs arrived within minutes.”
    â€œWhy the cassock?” Montoya asked.
    â€œThe Wembleys are old school. They like tradition. I wore it for them. I usually don’t.”
    â€œWhy do you think Cam—er, Sister Camille was wearing a bridal gown?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He shook his head, biting at his lower lip, thinking hard. “The dress looked old. Not overly expensive, I’d guess. Like the kind a nun might wear when she was taking her vows and becoming a bride of Christ.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    O’Toole lifted a shoulder. “It’s an old custom, and St. Marguerite’s is steeped in tradition, far more than the other parishes nearby. The nuns wear habits, parishioners still abstain from meat on Good Fridays . . . though that’s something that’s coming a little back into vogue, isn’t it?” He glanced away before Montoya could read any more in his expression.
    â€œDid you know Camille in high school?” Montoya asked.
    â€œNo,” he said convincingly, finally returning Montoya’s gaze again. “She’s . . . she was younger than me. I never met her back then, but I did know her older sister.”
    â€œValerie?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDate her?”
    â€œNo.” A look passed between them. Back in the day, Frank O’Toole, athlete, hunk, and ladies’ man, had cut a swath through the girls at St. Timothy’s. How in the world had he turned to the priesthood, a life of celibacy? It didn’t make a lot of sense to Montoya.
    As if he understood, Frank said, “When my older sister, Mary Louise, was stricken with lymphoma, I made a deal with God. I’d go into the priesthood, take my vows, and dedicate my life to him, as long as he spared her.”
    â€œAnd how did that work out for you?” Montoya asked, trying to remember Mary Louise O’Toole.
    â€œMary died last year. But not from the disease. With God’s help, she seemed to beat it. She was hit in a crosswalk by an old man who stepped on the gas rather than the brakes.” He sighed and rubbed his face, the stubble of his whiskers scraping against his fingers. “Thankfully she died instantly.”
    â€œDo you think God held up his part of the bargain?”
    â€œHard to say,” he whispered. “I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m so important that the Father would