“What else do you want to talk about?”
“Huh?”
Troy leaned forward. “You could have asked Carmelita about me and Tom. What’s the real reason for this get together?”
Sin could see Troy’s curiosity in the twinkle of his eye. She decided to let him dangle for a while. “Why don’t you tell me how you became a cop? The last time I saw you, you were headed to the University of Miami on a full football scholarship.”
Troy’s shoulders slumped as he slouched back in his chair. “Not something I enjoy talking about.”
Sin swigged the rest of her beer and reached for her keys. “Well then, I guess our little time together has come to an end.”
Troy grabbed her wrist as she stood. “Why do you always have to be such a bitch?”
Sin shrugged. “Because being a bitch was ingrained in me growing up in a shit pile of a town where everyone thought you were something you weren’t.” She pulled her arm from his grip. “That’s why.”
Sin felt Troy’s stare as she stomped from the bar.
In fact, she felt everyone’s eyes follow her out of the bar.
9
Sin knew her anger and emotion got the best of her and she wasn’t happy about it. She screamed as she rode along the overseas highway. The growl of her bike more than drowned out her outburst.
She knew she needed to get back to Tumbleboat and start trying to make some sense of the little she had been told, but she needed time to clear her head. She needed time to come to grips with her life.
She didn’t even hesitate as she drove straight past the pier that led to Tumbleboat. She twisted her right wrist, upshifted into fifth gear, and flew past. Instinctively, she knew where she was headed.
Forty minutes later, she pulled into a small cemetery just to the south of Marathon. Marathon was considered the halfway point along the keys. Not a city or even a small town by most people’s standards, but to those who lived along the narrow strip of land known as the Florida Keys, it was a metropolis.
Sin drove into the cemetery and pulled her bike up to a grassy area that looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. She smiled when she gazed at the view. Her mother insisted on this plot site. She never insisted on much, but there was no denying her this one extravagance.
Her mother, Susanna Juanita Angelina Sanchez O’Malley had been born in Cuba two years before Fidel Castro took control of the island paradise by military coup. Although she left in nineteen eighty at the height of the Mariel Boatlift, she considered Cuba her first home and she insisted that her final resting place have a view of that home.
The memories of her mom regaling her with stories about the beauty of Cuba made Sin smile. Truth be told, Sin had been to Cuba many times during her ‘freelance’ days.
Walking to the gravesite brought back other memories. These were not as pleasant as the first. She remembered her mother’s own battle with cancer and how hard she fought the disease. Sin remembered her mother telling her that no matter what life threw at her, she was to always fight.
“Fight for everything, mi hija,” her mother would tell her. “When you know you are right, don’t you let other people tell you otherwise.”
Hearing those words in her mind brought Sin a sense of pride and a whole lot of guilt. Guilt for running from her home, guilt for running from the FBI, and guilt for trying to run from herself.
Sin wiped the dirt and leaves from the marble gravestone, knelt in front of it, and began talking.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been here to see you in a long time. I saw Dad earlier. It was the first time we spent more than five minutes together in fifteen years without having an argument or knockdown brawl.” Sin smiled. “It felt nice. I wanted to come by and promise you that I will take care of him and . . .”
Sin heard leaves crunching behind her. She quickly stood and turned toward the noise. Standing fifteen feet in front of her was a man—a big man. He stood about six-foot-five inches and had a wide girth. His gut protruded from the waist of his pants to the point where his belt had to be buckled under his gut. He was dressed all in white and had a white panama hat with a wide brim resting on top of his sweaty brow.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, young lady,” he drawled. The accent seemed a bit thicker than it needed to be. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He held out his hand. Sin didn’t reciprocate. The big guy slowly retracted his hand. “I’m Prophet Jeremiah Heap, Pastor of The Church of the New Son.”
“Mister Heap,” Sin said, “it’s nice to meet you. If you’ll excuse me, I was just paying my respects to my mother.”
“Prophet Heap,” he punctuated.
“Excuse me?” Sin said.
A pasty smirk rose on Heap’s face like dough rising in a bowl. “I am called Prophet Heap and I would be grateful if you would give me the respect I deserve and call me by such, young lady.”
Sin bit the inside of her cheek. So many things she wanted to say, but she knew this wasn’t the time or place.
She nodded. “Very well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you Prophet Heap, and in return, you can call me Sergeant Sinclair O’Malley because I know I have earned the right to be called such and not young lady.”
Heap took a step closer to Sin and was about to say something when a man came running. It was Bubba. His right eye was black and blue from where Joey hit him with the club. He glared at Sin before addressing the prophet. “Prophet Heap, your car is waiting, and I know you said you didn’t want to be late for your next appointment.”
Heap looked
