Free Devious by Lisa Jackson Page B

Montoya’s leather jacket, T-shirt, and jeans. Street clothes. “Detectives?” She felt her insides tighten. These guys weren’t the usual beat cops sent to inform the next of kin about a loved one’s death. “You’re investigating my sister’s death?” Her heart was knocking wildly. “What the hell happened to her?”
    “Please, Ms. Renard,” Bentz said, his gaze straying to the man and woman on the porch, “let’s take this inside.”
    “What are you saying?” Val asked. “There was some kind of accident? Where? At the convent?”
    But she saw a darker answer in Montoya’s eyes, and her mind raced ahead.
    “No, not an accident.” Her voice was hoarse, raspy. “She was killed?”
    Or took her own life.
    But she didn’t say it, didn’t want to believe any of this, including the chilling fact that the last e-mail she received from Cammie might have been a call for help or a suicide note that she received too late.
    Can’t take it anymore.
    Am leaving St. Marg’s.
    You know why.
    “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, shaking from the inside out.
    “Val.” Slade’s voice whispered against her ear, and he turned her toward her cottage where the back door stood open. Guiding her, he whistled to the dog and cast a warning glance at Montoya and Bentz. “Let’s just go inside and hear what the detectives have to say.”
    Something in his tone got to her, snapped her out of the dark folds of denial that threatened to suffocate her. She yanked her arm out of the cradle of his, gave herself a firm mental shake, and told herself to buck up. No matter what had happened, she wasn’t going to fall into the trap of being the victim, of leaning on a husband she didn’t trust, of ignoring the fact that some of Cammie’s insecurities, her paranoia, landed squarely on Slade Houston’s shoulders. “I can handle this,” she said, stepping away from him, barely aware that the dog was following. “Alone.”
    “I’m here.”
    “Yeah, and why is that?” she spat. “Why this morning, huh? What kind of timing is that?”
    She didn’t wait for an answer.
    Squaring her shoulders, she marched into her kitchen and let the screen door fall behind her. One of the cops—Montoya, who was on her heels—caught it before it slapped shut, then followed her into the kitchen and down a short hallway of ancient hardwood to the living area of the small house. She stood at the cold fireplace, her back to the blackened grate as the detectives, and Slade, damn him, collected near the front door, the toes of their shoes barely touching the bound edge of faded carpet.
    She glanced at the card she’d clutched in her closed fist and, scanning the information, confirmed her worst fears. Rick Bentz was from the Homicide Division. The chill in her soul turned to ice.
    “My sister was murdered?” she whispered, her gaze locking with Montoya’s. Oh, God, no. Please . . . no.
    “I’m sorry,” Montoya said, and she felt her knees start to buckle.
    No, no, no! Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at Montoya, memories of the past jarring her, rattling her soul. She remembered more about Reuben—“Diego” as he’d been called in high school—and in that split second, she thought she might get sick. “So have you arrested your friend Frank O’Toole yet?”
    Montoya’s jaw tightened.
    “The priest? Why would we arrest him?” Bentz asked as Slade crossed the carpet to stand next to her.
    She didn’t hesitate a second. “Because if anyone had the motive to kill Cammie, it was that hypocritical son of a bitch.” She felt tears burn her eyes. How many times had she counseled her sister to leave the church and get away from Frank O’Toole, to break it off entirely? Val’s heart twisted painfully as she realized she hadn’t tried hard enough. She hadn’t gotten through. Camille had been so damned stubborn. Anger flooded through her, and grief clawed at her heart. “Maybe you don’t know it yet, but Cammie is . . . was . . .