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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.
    â€œNo . . . 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
    V al 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.
    â€œOh, 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 . . .
    â€œIdiot,” 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