As the sole surviving Peck, Claire had inherited the property from her grandfather. Upon her death, her husband had the remains of the house razed and sold the land.
The path curved through the trees, close to the water just below a house under construction. It had to be the one Gabe Campbell was building, that he and Ainsley would move into. It was more finished than Emma had expected. The front wasn’t landscaped, and she saw footprints on the wet sand and gravel path. Two sets of footprints, she thought—a man’s and a woman’s. She followed them her around to the back of the house.
She sucked in a deep breath, containing a shudder of dread, when she saw that the backyard was landscaped, a garden laid out and partially planted. Hydrangeas, their creamy blossoms turning burgundy with autumn, grew next to rosebushes laden with late-blooming dark pink blossoms.
French doors opened out onto the garden. They were ajar, as if someone had just gone inside.
Emma let out her breath and drew her weapon, then followed a mulched path to the doors. The sun had dipped behind gray clouds, but she could make out a figure—a woman—lying on her side on a polished floor of narrow oak boards.
“Don’t…Emma…” Sister Cecilia’s voice was weak, barely audible.
Emma stepped inside. Except for the sister, the room was empty. Moving quickly, Emma ran to Sister Cecilia, saw that her hands and feet were tied and knelt next to her. Blood seeped from three two-inch slits evenly spaced across her upper chest, just below the collarbone.
“He wants me to bleed to death,” she said.
Like Saint Cecilia, Emma thought. And he was only getting started. “Where is he now?”
“I…I don’t know. I didn’t take the name Cecilia because of how she died.”
“I know, Sister. I need to get you out of here.” Emma grabbed Sister Cecilia’s cast-off headband. “Can you hold this to your cuts? It’ll help stop the bleeding.”
Without responding, Sister Cecilia raised a trembling hand and clutched the headband, pressing it against her wounds. “Don’t… Emma. Save yourself. Let me go to God.”
“God is with you now, Sister.” Emma did her best to encourage the young novice. “Let’s get those binds off you, okay?”
Sister Cecilia maintained a weak grip on the headband, but there was almost no color left in her face. Behind her, in a smear of blood, was a painter’s tray holding a utility knife, pliers, scissors, razor blades and a screwdriver. Emma forced herself not to let her mind spin off into imagining what torture could be accomplished with such an array of tools and instruments.
Keeping her gun in her right hand, she reached for the scissors. “Sister, I’m going to cut the binds on your ankles first. Do you know who did this? Did you get any description at all?”
“A collar,” the novice whispered. “A priest.”
No, Emma thought. It was someone pretending to be a priest.
Sister Cecilia shut her eyes. “The child.”
“Claire Grayson’s child.”
She had been a mother as well as a wife. A small child would have been a second blow to her becoming a nun. Had her husband and child known?
Emma opened the scissors and positioned the blades on the twine securing Sister Cecilia’s ankles. It was awkward work with her left hand, but she wasn’t relinquishing her gun. She half sawed, half cut the thick twine until it fell to the floor.
“All right.” She set the scissors aside and put her free arm around the younger woman’s thin shoulders, helping her to sit up. “Sister, I need you to stand. We have to get out of here before he comes back.”
Sister Cecilia didn’t respond. Her body went slack against Emma’s arm, the bloody headband dropping down her front as she fainted. Emma lowered her slowly back to the floor. She hoped Colin and Yank weren’t far behind, because she wasn’t about to leave Sister Cecilia.
She heard the click of a weapon behind her. “Put the gun down, Agent Sharpe.”
CHAPTER 39
AINSLEY D’AUBERVILLE GREETED FINIAN WITH A hug when he stepped out of his car and then stayed a little too close to him as she led him down the lane toward the water. Obviously she’d meant it when she’d indicated she was easily intimate with people, but he had a feeling this went further—that she’d somehow bonded with him inappropriately in the immediate aftermath of the attack at the convent and the discovery that her father’s painting was involved.
The woman was disarmingly straightforward. “I have a bit of a crush on you, Father,” she said with an unembarrassed laugh. “Of course, I know you’re a priest and we can’t…” She smiled, leaning into him. She was wearing another long, flowing sweater and slim pants. “It’s a damn waste, though, if I can be blunt about it.”
“What about Mr. Campbell?” Finian asked.
“Oh, Gabe and I are fine. You’re the forbidden fruit.” At his raised eyebrows, she laughed, blushing ever so slightly. “I suppose I should have come up with a more appropriate metaphor given present company.”
Finian let her remark go without comment.
“I wonder if I could have been a nun,” she said. “I had no idea about Emma. Now she and your friend Colin are a thing, don’t you think?” She held up a hand. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t want you to break a confidence. Don’t answer if you can’t.”
“Why did you call me to come here?” Finian asked.
Her step faltered. “I have so much on my mind.” She motioned toward a dense thicket of trees. “I thought I saw someone a few minutes ago—you, in fact. I thought you’d parked out of sight and were walking down to the water to find me. Wishful thinking, huh? Next thing, you pulled into my driveway.”
