“I make my final vows soon,” she’d told him.
He’d raised his eyebrows. “Bet not.”
A year later, she’d entered the FBI academy. Yank had never doubted—at least not to her face—that she could get through the eighteen weeks of training.
Now here they were, on her porch on a chilly early autumn evening, a member of her former order dead—because of her? Was her work as an FBI agent somehow responsible for what had occurred today?
Yank walked over to the back corner of the porch, where a wooden easel was set up next to a small, painted chest loaded with art supplies. He frowned at the canvas clipped to the easel. “What’s that?”
“The docks,” Emma said. “It’s a work in progress.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Your doing? You paint?”
She nodded without explaining.
He leaned forward and squinted again at the oil painting. “Is that a seagull?”
“Actually, it’s a boat.”
“Oh. Good thing you’re an art detective. You’d have a hell of a time trying to make a living as a painter.” He straightened and turned back to her, his dark gaze as penetrating and unrelenting as she’d ever seen. “So did you lie to me, Agent Sharpe?”
“No.”
“Which came first, deciding to come up here to pick apples or Sister Joan’s call?”
“Sister Joan’s call, but I didn’t lie.” Emma tried not to sound defensive. “There was no need to tell you about Sister Joan.”
“She didn’t sound nervous?”
“A little, but I don’t think she was really afraid until I arrived at the convent and saw her.”
“Then not telling me about her was a sin of omission, not a sin of commission.”
“It wasn’t a sin at all.”
Yank was silent a moment. “Did you assume this painting she wanted you to assess was a personal or a professional matter?”
For the first time, Emma felt the sting of her scrape and the ache of her muscles in her legs and lower back. Her head was pounding. She looked out past the channel toward the Atlantic, the sky and ocean a purplish gray, the air clear, as if the fog earlier in the day had never existed.
Finally she said, “We didn’t get that far. Sister Joan promised to explain once we were in the tower.”
“What about this Sister Cecilia?”
“She’s a novice. She’ll be professing her final vows soon. She’s an art teacher. She’s also working on a biography of Mother Linden.”
Yank scrutinized her a moment. “Do you have a headache?”
His question took her by surprise. “How do you know?”
He gave her a slight smile. “Your eyes. They’re headache eyes.”
“I landed hard when I jumped down from the fence, but it’s been a long, sad, miserable day.” She forced herself to rally. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Sure you will.” He walked over to the porch steps, the boats down on the docks shifting in the rising tide. “Have I ever told you I hate boats?”
Emma smiled unexpectedly. “You have.”
“I grew up in the mountains—what’d I know about boats? Then some jackass I know took me out on this dented, rusting, leaking junkyard of a boat in a gale that would have had Ahab wetting his pants.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
He pretended to shudder. “It was hell. I almost jumped overboard. Hated every damn second.”
“Did you get seasick, or were you just afraid you’d capsize?”
“I toughed it out. I don’t know why the hell we didn’t capsize.”
“Was this jackass a friend of yours?”
“Yeah. He grew up fishing. I think he was born on a boat. Bastard.”
Emma bit back another smile. “Have you been on a boat since?”
“Navy ships. That’s it. I like terra firma.”
She frowned at her canvas, her headache easing now that she’d laughed a little. Her boat did look a little like a seagull. “Would you like a drink or something to eat before you leave?”
“No, but you should eat. You have food?”
“Some, and there are restaurants within walking distance.”
“Be careful if you have any booze. It’s easy to overdo after something like today.”
“I haven’t been to Maine in a few weeks. The last time I was here I painted, read, walked, ate lobster. I use this place as a refuge these days.” Emma picked up a paintbrush and ran her fingers over the soft natural bristles. “My past is going to come out, Yank.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“It’s not a secret but I don’t automatically tell people.”
“You were a nun, Emma. You weren’t a serial killer.”
“You recruited a lot of tigers to your unit. Finding out about my past will change my relationship with them. It’ll draw attention to me, which could affect our work. We’re supposed to keep a low profile.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“If I’d stayed at the convent—”
“Don’t go there. It won’t help you or anyone else. It won’t help find this killer.” Yank looked back at her, his gaze half a notch softer than pure granite. “Maybe it’s not a good idea for you to be here alone. What if our killer was targeting you, and Sister Joan gummed up the works?”
“I stood alone by that gate for fifteen minutes if anyone wanted to attack me.”
“I can put a protective detail on you.”
“No, never. That’d do me in for sure.” Emma returned the paintbrush to a drawer in the chest. “Besides, I wasn’t a target today.”
“Are you sure about that?” Yank’s expression was difficult to read in the fading light. “Don’t beat yourself up. Sister Joan would have had you escort her to this tower if she’d thought she was in danger. Whatever she was worried about, it wasn’t getting attacked in her own convent.”
“It took me too long to get over that fence.”
“You’re an art detective and analyst. You’re not supposed to be kick-ass.” There wasn’t even a hint of criticism in his tone. “You did what any of us kick-ass types would have done, except I’d have bitched and moaned climbing over that fence. Did it have spikes?”
Emma managed a smile. “No spikes.”
She followed
