Free Devious by Lisa Jackson

wrenched. “But if you want to, you can leave Bo with me.” She felt her lips twitch into a bit of a smile. She’d always been a sucker for animals. Strays to purebreds, Val loved them all.
    “You can get your own dog.”
    “Okay,” she said, not going into the fact that it was she who had made the trip to the animal shelter. She still believed the hound would be happier chasing squirrels and armadillos and jackrabbits at the ranch than cooped up here in a small yard where the gate was constantly opening and closing, strangers coming and going. “But I’ll miss you, big guy,” she said to the dog. As she leaned over him, she caught sight of a car in front of the main house. A squad car pulled into an empty spot at the curb.
    Two men climbed out, and her heart turned to ice. “Oh, God,” she whispered, knowing that whatever the two men wanted, it wasn’t good. She’d been on the other side of this drama too many times to kid herself. Her stomach did a slow, painful roll as she thought of what news they were bearing, the kind of news she’d sometimes had to bring to a worried family: “There’s been an accident . . . sincere condolences . . . so sorry for your loss . . .”
    She braced herself, heard dishes clattering as if from a great, long distance away.
    One of the cops, a younger Hispanic-looking guy in a leather jacket, approached her a step or two ahead of the stockier man. “I’m Detective Montoya, and this is Detective Rick Bentz of the New Orleans Police Department. We’re looking for Valerie Renard.”
    “I’m Valerie,” she said, jarred by the voice that didn’t sound like her own as she accepted some kind of business card from the older guy.
    Time seemed to stand still as she looked at the contours of the younger man’s face. Strong jaw, sharp nose, dark eyes . . . The owl that had been hooting stopped, a heavy blossom on the bougainvillea near the front door silently fell to the ground, pink petals breaking apart. “Montoya?” she repeated over the buzzing in her head.
    He nodded, as if expecting her to draw some sort of connection.
    “What’s going on?”
    She heard Slade’s voice over the white noise that filled her ears.
    “Valerie?”
    He was talking to her, but she was fixated on the Hispanic man with the dark goatee and thin lips.
    “Who’re you?” the Hispanic man asked.
    “I’m her husband. Slade Houston. I think the bigger question is who the hell are you?”
    Crouched near her feet, Bo let out a low, ominous growl.
    Slade sent the hound a warning glare. “Hush!”
    “Ms. Renard,” the older guy, Bentz, was saying to her, “are you the sister of Camille Renard, known as Sister Camille of St. Marguerite’s Convent here in the city?” He kept one eye on the dog.
    Oh, God. Val’s heart was beating a horrible tattoo.
    This was about Cammie—two cops coming with unthinkable news.
    “No!” she said, shaking her head slowly, refusing to believe what she innately understood, the reason the cops were here on her doorstep, their faces grim masks of resolve. She didn’t want to see it, but it was there in their eyes. They were the reluctant messengers of death. “Not Cammie,” she whispered, horrified. “Not Cammie. No, no, no!” Her knees started to buckle as her world exploded, splintering into jagged, ugly shards. She felt a strong arm catch her around the waist.
    Slade.
    “Ms. Renard?” the older, sadder cop said quietly.
    “They’re sisters,” Slade interjected, holding her steady.
    “Cammie is my younger . . .” Val’s voice faded, her throat constricting her words to a raspy, disbelieving tenor.
    Something was wrong here, very, very wrong. Cammie? No . . . no, it just couldn’t be. So young. So full of life. Fresh-faced with a smile that could light up the world.
    But then she remembered the ringing bells, the vision of a horrible black-cloaked fiend with dangling chain, the same threatening demon that cut through her mind last night, its evil, glowing