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sacrifice my sister as a pawn in a faith-based version of Truth or Dare. But for me, Mary Louise’s death was a test of my beliefs, of my calling.”
    â€œAnd did you pass?” Montoya asked.
    The corner of Frank’s lips twitched, though his countenance remained grim. “That’s for God to decide.”
    â€œWhat about the victim? What do you think happened to her?”
    â€œI wish I knew,” Frank whispered fervently, though he glanced away, avoiding Montoya’s glare.
    â€œSo you knew Valerie, but not Camille?”
    â€œIn high school, yes.”
    â€œAnd Valerie lives in Texas?”
    â€œNo. She’s here.”
    â€œHere? In New Orleans?” Montoya asked, making a mental note. Hadn’t Sister Charity claimed Camille’s sister lived in a small town in East Texas?
    The priest was nodding. “Owns a bed-and-breakfast in the Garden District, I think. I can’t remember the name, but Sister Camille mentioned that Valerie had moved back to New Orleans sometime in the past couple of years.” His voice was soft, far away. As if he were remembering the conversation.
    â€œCamille talk to you often?”
    â€œSometimes,” Frank said.
    â€œHow often?”
    â€œA few times a week, sometimes less, other times more.”
    â€œDid she ever mention any old boyfriends?”
    â€œYou mean, besides you?” Frank cocked a dark eyebrow.
    Montoya held on to his temper. “I mean anyone who might want to do her harm?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEnemies?”
    Father Frank shook his head. “I didn’t know that much about her personal life,” he said. “If you’re asking about her confessions, those are private, between her and God.”
    â€œAnd you.”
    â€œOr Father Paul.” His smile held little warmth. “You might want to talk to Sister Lucia or Sister Louise. They all seemed to be close.” He appeared suddenly tired, almost irritable. “Is there anything else?”
    â€œI guess that’s it for now. But if I think of anything else . . .”
    â€œOf course, Reuben. Just call.” He flashed a humorless smile as he rose and walked out the door, his dark cassock billowing, a stain visible near its hem.
    â€œFather Frank?”
    The priest turned, his face supremely patient.
    â€œThere’s something on the bottom of your cassock.” Montoya pointed at the stain, black on black.
    â€œWhat? Is there?” He glanced down, saw the almost invisible stain. “I was out in the rain. . . .”
    Feeling oddly like a supplicant, Montoya bent down on one knee and touched the hem. A faint crust of reddish brown smeared his fingertips.
    â€œIt’s blood,” he said, looking up at Frank.
    The priest frowned, his forehead furrowing. “It has to be Sister Camille’s. From when I bent down over her body. Of course I hoped, prayed, that I could revive her. . . .” His voice faded and his features twisted with the memory.
    â€œWe’ll need the cassock.” Montoya rose, face-to-face with the tormented priest.
    Frank’s face was pinched, as if he were about to object, but changed his mind. “Of course. I’ll get it to you.”
    Montoya was already at the door. “If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll come with you.”
    â€œYou don’t trust me, Reuben?”
    â€œThis is a homicide investigation, Frank. I don’t trust anyone,” Montoya admitted.

CHAPTER 9
    â€œ S on of a—” Valerie bit off the last of the oath as she walked out the back door the next morning. Her eyes narrowed on the battered pickup with Texas plates. Covered in mud, with grimy arcs across the windshield showing where the wipers had slung off dirt and water, the Ford was parked beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree on the apron of her driveway, right behind her relic of a Subaru.
    The screen door slapped shut behind her, startling a couple of