Devious - Lisa Jackson [66]
“Now is better,” Montoya had persisted. “When things are still fresh in people’s minds.”
Bentz agreed. “Besides, maybe Father O’Toole will show up.”
She seemed ready to argue, until Bentz started reeling off the names of staff they needed to interview.
“Fine,” she finally agreed. With a scowl, Sister Charity unlocked the gate before walking off stiffly to locate the people who needed to be questioned again.
Montoya had decided to talk directly with Sister Lucia, despite their connection. He wanted to see for himself her reactions when questioned about one of her friends. Now they were seated opposite each other, in the same room in which he’d interviewed Frank O’Toole less than twenty-four hours earlier. Same dim wall sconce and scarred table, same disturbing feeling that the truth was hiding in the corners just out of touch and skittering away from the light.
“You don’t remember what it was that woke you?” Montoya asked, checking his notes.
Sister Lucia shook her head as she nervously braided her fingers together. She was pale and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but in this small room talking to the police.
The door to the outer hallway was ajar, a bit of cool air from the darkened corridor seeping inside. Montoya wanted to close the door, suspecting that the reverend mother was still prowling nearby, and her presence had an icy effect on the rest of the nuns.
On the other side of the chapel, Bentz was in a similar room, questioning people who resided in the convent—nuns and lay staff—whose statements needed clarification.
“No,” she said now, “I don’t remember a specific sound waking me. It was just a feeling I had.” She bit her lip anxiously, and he could see that she was a really bad liar. “Maybe I, er, heard a noise in my sleep, a dream or something, but nothing I can really name.”
“A scream?” he prodded.
She shook her head violently. “No.” She blushed and looked away.
“A cry for help?”
“No!”
“Footsteps?”
She met his eyes, her gaze miserable in her grief. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
They were getting nowhere. He tried a new direction. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about Father O’Toole. You found him in the courtyard that night?”
“Yes. Or he found me. I was knocking on Father Paul’s door, and Father O’Toole stepped into the light. He startled me,” she said, explaining again how she had suddenly found the younger priest behind her.
“You were Sister Camille’s closest friend,” Montoya suggested.
“Maybe.” She lifted a shoulder. “At least one of them. We’re all friends here.”
He doubted that. “You were the one she confided in about her pregnancy, the only one.”
Lucia’s eyes slid away. “Yes,” she said faintly, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, you know, we went to school together, though we never hung out much then.”
“Did she tell you the baby was Father Frank O’Toole’s?”
Lines formed across her smooth forehead. “She never mentioned him specifically.”
Montoya took note.
“But she did say that she and the baby’s father were, uh, ‘involved’—that’s the word she used. Which was pretty obvious since she was pregnant,” Lucia said.
“But she didn’t mention Father O’Toole?”
“No.” Lucia swallowed hard. “Not in so many words, but I, um, saw them together a couple of times. You know . . . embracing . . . kissing. When they thought no one was looking.”
She avoided his eyes, embarrassed.
“And others saw them?”
“I suppose.” She lifted a shoulder, her body stiff. As if she wanted to jump out of her own skin. “They tried to be discreet, but, you know, there’s always someone around.”
“How did Sister Camille feel about her pregnancy?” Montoya asked.
“She was . . . scared, I guess. She said she didn’t know what she’d do but that she’d probably have to leave the convent.”
“But she was intent on having the baby?”
“What? Oh!” Her eyes grew round when she understood that he was asking about the possibility of Camille terminating the pregnancy. “Oh, she was absolutely going to have the baby and raise it. She wouldn’t do anything to stop it. I mean, no, oh, no way.” Lucia was shaking