Devious - Lisa Jackson [41]
Now . . . now nothing, it seemed, was clear.
CHAPTER 15
There was no way Val could just go about her normal life.
Nothing about it will ever be normal again, a voice nagged at her as she walked out the back door of her little cottage and slid into her Subaru. The interior was hot; she felt as if she were climbing into an oven, and her air-conditioning was sporadic at best. She started the car, buckled up, and cranked open the window to capture any trace of cool air.
Slade was still at the house—or at least his truck was still parked where he’d left it—but she’d deal with him later.
Right now she had things to do.
She planned on dropping off copies of the e-mails she’d received from Camille at the police station. Just after she had a heart-to-heart with Father Frank O’Toole, that miserable, lying son of a bitch.
“Val!” Slade’s voice chased after her as she pulled out of the short driveway and onto the street. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him striding toward his truck.
She hesitated, then ignored him. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with him, nor even, for that matter, a discussion. She didn’t slow down until she reached St. Charles Avenue. There, she eased into the flow of traffic, navigating around a streetcar with its cargo of tourists eyeing the gracious mansions set back from the tree-lined street, snapping pictures of the pastel Victorian with its widow’s walk and gingerbread details.
Val couldn’t deal with Slade now; didn’t want to. Later, even though his coming to New Orleans was a fool’s mission. And what was all that talk about reconciling? Ridiculous! She ignored that small feminine part of her that found him fascinating, the bit that found his stubborn determination and long drive from Bad Luck romantic.
“Pain in the neck,” she muttered, reminding herself that if it weren’t for Slade and the events that had unfolded two years earlier, Camille would still be alive. She set her jaw, and as she slowed for a red light, she glanced into her rearview mirror, past the traffic stacking up behind her, to the side street leading to the Briarstone House. Sure enough, Slade was waiting to turn onto St. Charles and wedge the old Ford into traffic. Behind her, traffic shifted, a sleek black convertible jockeying into the space behind her.
She was only slightly aware of the BMW, her attention focused on her husband and his beat-up truck. Was Slade following her?
No doubt.
Oh, for the love of God, why?
She felt a tug on her heartstrings and thought for a moment that he really did care, that he wouldn’t have driven all the way from East Texas if he didn’t still have feelings for her, that the past was the past and—
A horn blasted sharply.
“Hey, lady, it doesn’t get any greener than that!” The jerk in the Beemer was gesturing at the light.
Val punched it, disgusted that thoughts of Slade had interrupted her concentration.
As the BMW found a way to pass her, the driver gunning the engine to show his disgust, she pushed the speed limit and cut through the city.
Again, her thoughts turned to Camille and her heart twisted. She’d initially thought Frank O’Toole had killed her, but now, with a little time to think about it, Valerie wasn’t so sure. He was a priest who had broken his vows, yes; that much was true. But to take a life, not only of the woman he’d slept with, but of his own child, too? Was that possible? Even with human passion being what it was, Frank O’Toole was a Catholic priest, and murder was a mortal sin.
But if not Frank O’Toole, then who?
The short drive to St. Marguerite’s Cathedral seemed to take forever, and as she nosed her little car into a parking space on the street, the church bells were tolling again. She realized it was noon, barely twelve hours since she’d stood at her kitchen window, worrying about Camille, sensing something was wrong but not knowing that at that very second she might have been on the verge of death, drawing her last breath. In her mind’s eye, Valerie