Devious - Lisa Jackson [196]
“Yeah, and you love it.” He was out the door again, and Val sighed.
“Thanks for everything,” she said to Freya.
“No thanks needed. The added notoriety of what happened here has only helped business. Sick as it is, I’ve had to turn people away. We’re full up for the rest of the summer, which isn’t usually the high season around here.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said, and it was heartfelt.
“Ditto. And I’m leaving everything just as you left it in here. While Sarah’s with me. But”—she wagged a finger at Val—“if you ever say you’re not coming back, I’m putting all your stuff on craigslist and selling it. I’ll turn this room into an apartment for the guests—it’ll make me a fortune.” Her eyes lit up at the prospect.
“I changed my mind. I won’t miss you at all.”
They laughed and hugged, and then Val, with Slade’s help, limped out of her little house and into the truck.
They were going to start over, to pick up the frayed threads of their marriage and weave it back together.
He started the engine and, with Bo between them, pulled into traffic.
They were on their way to the ranch outside of Bad Luck, Texas. She was going to forget that she’d ever mistrusted him, and she had already forgiven Cammie.
Val closed her eyes and prayed it would work out. As she did, she felt Slade’s hand close over hers, as if he’d read her thoughts.
“This is gonna be good, wife,” he said with this cowboy grin. “Just you wait and see.”
And in the distance, they heard the bells, pealing through the summer air, counting off the next few minutes of the rest of their lives.
“So that’s it, case closed?” Montoya asked as he walked into Bentz’s office Monday afternoon, then flopped into one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“It’ll never be closed,” Bentz said, “not as long as Father John is alive.” He was tired, his shoulders ached, and he was pissed off that the fake priest had slipped through their fingers again.
“You don’t know that he is alive,” Montoya said, playing devil’s advocate again. “Grace Blanc could have been murdered by a copycat.”
“Blood type says it’s the same guy.”
“DNA isn’t back yet. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Bentz shot him a look. He rarely drank.
“Okay, a Diet Coke or whatever it is you like.” Montoya was on his feet again, and Bentz grabbed his jacket as they walked out of the office and down the stairs to the main level.
Outside, the day smelled fresh, the air clean, a breeze tossing around the fronds of a few palms that were planted near the street.
“Grace Blanc won’t be the last one,” Bentz said, irritated.
“But at least the nuns at St. Marguerite’s are safe again.”
“At a price.” Sister Charity Varisco hadn’t made it. From what he’d heard, she’d dived onto the knife-wielding Sister Devota in order to save Valerie Renard Houston, her biological daughter.
But Devota had survived and would go to trial. Her wounds hadn’t been deep, and the DA was putting together a case that would ensure that she be locked up for life.
Which, in Bentz’s estimation, wasn’t long enough. Too many women, good women of faith, had died at her hand. She was, as Montoya had commented, “a real nut job.”
“Hey, wait up!”
He didn’t want to look over his shoulder, knowing he’d see Brinkman jogging up, sweating out his shirt, wheezing.
Montoya turned and frowned as they reached the door to the bar.
Brinkman caught up with them and reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. To Bentz’s surprise, he shook out several and offered them each a smoke.
Bentz shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Montoya hesitated, then said, “Naw, I’m off ’em. The case is over, and Abby’s on to me.”
“Pussy-whipped.” Brinkman snorted, lighting up and shooting smoke through his nostrils.
“Yeah, well, I’m still married.”
Brinkman started to bristle but instead shrugged off the dig at his multiple marriages and divorces. “Lucky you,” he said, and Bentz opened the door.
“I’ll be right in,” Brinkman said as Montoya slid inside. “Order me a light beer.”
“In your dreams, Brinkman. You can order it yourself.”
Bentz