I’ve always thought there was a certain poetic irony to my adoptive name being Marín, taken from the word for sailor; so very fitting for a pirate.
The couple who adopted me were wealthy, living in Marbella. Other than the new language, it wasn’t much of an adjustment for me. I ended up growing up amid the same privileged elite that I probably would have if I’d stayed in New York. In fact, one of the reasons I’m so fluent in English is because the school I went to made it a mission to teach us to the point of emersion. By the time I came of age, I had even more of a reason to be fluent, not just in English, but several other languages as well.
After all, my biological father’s clients are located in almost every part of the world. And each of them has a pound of flesh owed to me for the sin of working with that man.
“So, are we selling the earrings to divvy up the money or will one of you pay a fair share for them?”
They all look around at each other and one by one shrug in turn. The watches, gadgets, and occasional items of clothing are popular prizes among them, but none have ever shown any interest in holding on to jewelry. Far too difficult to get rid of.
“I think I’ll take them. That was a fun little addition to this job.” I chuckle to myself, remembering the resistance the woman put up.
With the shares officially divided, I sit back to enjoy the moment. There will only be a few more post-heist meetings like this before the final job where I finally take down the man responsible for all of this; the same man who murdered my mother.
Richard Coleman.
For now, I have some earrings to bury with the rest of my treasures.
Chapter Two Leira
…five….six…seven…
I squirm through the rocky opening, counting to myself to keep from going temporarily insane. I’m not any more claustrophobic than the average person, but this long, narrow passage I’m in would be enough to send anyone into a panic attack.
Still, I know what lies on the other end.
The tight squeeze these jagged walls have on my body is nothing compared to the daily suffocation of convent life.
Frankly, I’m surprised none of the sisters have found this escape themselves. Then again, unlike yours truly, they all came to the convent by choice. Or maybe they have, but Mother Agnes has prohibited them from actually revisiting it the way I am now. Either way, it’s all mine this morning.
…thirty-two…thirty-three…thirty-four…
I’m supposed to be in the garden with Sister Sara but I feigned a stomach ache. A lie. Something I should probably confess later on, but probably won’t.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God, or even in following the rules of the convent (not that there’s a specific rule regarding what I’m about to do). But really, would God want me missing out on the beauty He created that lies beyond this ordeal? It’s just sitting there, completely ignored by humankind instead of being enjoyed the way it should be.
When my count gets to seventy-four, I finally see the opening. The first time I wandered into the craggy hole, I only made it to fifty-five before giving up and reversing course. It was only on a particularly dull day, sowing seeds to the point of mind-numbing madness that I decided to explore further, promising myself I’d get to one hundred before giving up.
Now, here I am.
I shove my head through the opening on the other side to look down into the clear, blue waters of the lagoon. I smile and quickly wriggle my body through the mouth of the small passage. On this side, it’s a precarious but short climb down to the edge of the water.
Once at my usual small clearing, I take a moment to catch my breath, enjoying the warm Mediterranean sun beaming down on this tiny island. I suppose there are worse places to remain in exile for the summer before my final year of college. I could be in Siberia or some country closer to the equator where my copper skin and thick, curly hair would fit in more.
Or I could be dead.
I close my eyes, releasing those morbid thoughts. When I open them, the sun reflecting off the sparkling surface of the water like diamonds renews my enthusiasm for this adventure. I quickly remove the vestments of my postulant’s clothes, which maintain my image as a nun in training: white blouse, long black jumper dress, socks, shoes, bra, and underwear. I save the veil for last. Unlike the rest of my overly modest, plain clothing, I regard it with the sort of reverence in which it should be held. Something about it always makes me feel guilty about what I do on this side of the cliff.
Lastly, I remove the hair tie keeping my wild mane of curls tightly bundled underneath that veil. I drop it next to my clothes, then sink my fingers into the mass to shake it out so that it falls to the middle of my back. Being half-black and half-Latino of Mexican origin, I’m an interesting—sometimes frustrating—mix of both my parents. This hair is one of those things. Half the time, I never know what to do with it; the other half, I love how it depicts my true nature—wild, unmanageable, and longing to be free.
The gold cross on a chain around my neck remains in place as usual. I’ve never thought about removing it before, and I see no reason to change that even now. I wore it long before I came to the convent and can’t even remember the
