“What if there are giant green monsters in the ocean?” Colin asked, then shook his head. “Hell, Kevin. My head’s spinning.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve been running all this through your head, too. Even with Emma—” He broke off. “Never mind. I’m not going there. I have to go. Stay in touch, okay?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
Kevin returned to his boat, and Colin, with a last, yearning glance at the kayaks across the tidal river, headed up to the Sharpe house. As he reached the porch steps, his cell phone rang, and he saw it was Emma. He decided not to share his conversation with Kevin with her.
Not that he had a chance even to say hello. “I’m supposed to meet Yank,” she said. “He’s on his way up from Boston, if he’s not already here. Colin, we need to find out what became of Claire Grayson’s husband.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know that. Were there any children? Did he have an affair? Did she have an affair?”
She sounded just like Kevin, except there was a strain in her voice—a clear note of urgency. “Emma, what’s going on?”
“Claire Grayson wanted to enter the convent, Colin. She couldn’t. She was married.”
“That could help explain her state of mind when she died.”
“Sister Cecilia found a picture of Claire and Jack d’Auberville. I think it was taken at her house. The one that burned.”
Colin heard something in Emma’s voice. “Where is Sister Cecilia now?”
“She took off to Heron’s Cove on her bike but she never got there. We need to find her.”
He didn’t hesitate. “On it.”
“You’re—”
“I’m at the docks. I’ll intercept Yank.”
Colin slid his phone back in his pocket as Matt Yankowski came around from the front of the house. “I tried to reach Emma on my way up here but my call went straight to voice mail. She must be in a dead spot.”
“She just left the joyful sisters,” Colin said, using irreverent humor to cover his own sense of urgency, then filled Yank in.
The senior FBI agent squinted out at the water, two sailboats passing into the deep channel to the ocean. “Where’s Father Bracken?”
“Rock Point.”
“The man’s well connected. He’s just the sort my unit could end up hunting if he turns. Let’s hope he’s on our side and stays there.”
Colin was silent.
Yank pulled his gaze from the water and narrowed his dark eyes on Colin. “I’m counting on you to be the tough son of a bitch you are, Donovan.”
“Works for me.”
“We need to find Sister Cecilia,” Yank said. “And Emma.”
CHAPTER 37
SISTER CECILIA FOUND HERSELF IN A FETAL POSITION on a hardwood floor when she regained consciousness. She tried to sit up but realized her hands and feet were bound. Confused, she shut her eyes, telling herself she’d woken up in the middle of a nightmare and should just go back to sleep and wake up again.
She heard the creak of hinges. Her heartbeat quickened with fear—real fear. Her head ached, and she tried to move again and felt the pull of the binds on her wrists and ankles, the painful dig of them into her flesh.
A breeze floated over her, as if to give her courage, to bless her with hope. She could smell the ocean, and she could hear the rhythmic wash of the tide.
She opened her eyes and noticed the dappled light on the polished wood floor.
She felt the presence of another person behind her and prayed silently.
“What do you want?” she asked finally.
There was no response.
Roses…she could smell roses now, and she remembered.
The house. The garden. The French doors.
Her head pulsed with pain, and she could feel the swelling at the base of her neck. Her white headband was gone, her hair in her face.
In front of her was a white wall with two paintings leaned against it side by side. On the left was The Garden Gallery, the Jack d’Auberville painting that she’d glimpsed the morning of Sister Joan’s death. It was in a simple frame now, and it had been cleaned, no longer dulled and obscured by yellowed varnish and grime. The cheerful, vibrant colors for which Jack d’Auberville was known were striking against the stark surroundings of the otherwise empty room.
Just as Sister Cecilia remembered, the scene was dominated by the painting of a beautiful woman in an island cave.
Blinking back a surge of pain and fear, she focused on the larger canvas next to The Garden Gallery. She’d seen it as she’d approached the house. It was the painting of the woman in the cave. She recognized the island, the light, the beautiful woman, the Viking warship—Jack d’Auberville had captured them all in his painting of the gallery room.
On the floor next to the d’Auberville painting was a silver bracelet etched with images of ancient Norse gods.
“Claire Grayson had a child, didn’t she?” Sister Cecilia spoke quietly, gently. “And you’re that child.”
CHAPTER 38
EMMA WALKED QUICKLY ON A NARROW PATH OFF the lane that led to the water below Jack d’Auberville’s former studio. Marsh grass slapped against the lower legs of her jeans. She’d stopped at the converted carriage house to check if Sister Cecilia had detoured to see the site of Claire Grayson’s house for herself, but no one was around. Then Emma had spotted one of the convent’s sturdy, inexpensive bicycles leaned up against a tree. She texted Colin to meet her there and started down the lane, hoping to find Sister Cecilia.
Instead, up through the trees, she swore she’d seen someone in a black suit with a Roman collar, running toward the water.
A priest? Father Bracken?
Was he here, too? Had Sister Cecilia called him to meet her?
Emma shook off the questions. Now wasn’t the time for them. She had to find Sister Cecilia. She had to be out here somewhere.
Fresh footprints on the path reassured Emma that she was going in the right direction. This, she thought, was where Claire Grayson had fled to start a new life—and where she’d died. Last night, Colin had produced
