Because Sean had no right to pry into her life. He no doubt had a lovely relationship with what was likely a sweet TV sitcom family, so how could he understand her situation? No one could.
And why should she even care? Father O’Malley would be leaving St. Theresa’s in a day or two, and she’d never hear from him again. She’d had her fun, a break from her regular routine. She’d needed it, had enjoyed it—too much—but now it was over. Back to real life.
So what was she so worried about? Bubba was dead, right?
But she couldn’t dismiss her foggy memory of once driving Bubba by her parents’ home to show it to him. Maybe to brag. Who knew? The old homestead was ostentatious. She remembered the jerk’s long whistle of appreciation. He’d been impressed by the size of the home, the upscale neighborhood. He’d thought it would be great fun to get inside and trash the place, raid the liquor cabinet and get wasted.
For once Bubba had listened to her. He’d been pissed at her refusal, but had driven away to create mayhem elsewhere.
Oh, God. What if Sean was right? What if Bubba was still alive, out there and looking for her? What if he remembered that house and went there? What if he harmed her parents?
No, she was being ridiculous. Bubba was dead. Sean was trying to control her, and she wasn’t falling into that trap ever again. Her time with Bubba had taught her that at least.
Besides, her parents owned multiple televisions, watched the local news every night before bed. They would be perfectly aware that her ex had escaped prison. And they likely knew he’d managed to kill himself in a fire.
Still, all morning she’d been thinking about calling her dad to warn him. Sometimes she missed her father, despite how cold and judgmental he was. Did her dad ever miss her? Likely not. It’d been a long time, and both her parents were no doubt glad to be rid of their screw-up daughter and her constant failures.
Darn Sean O’Malley. He had no right to put these ideas in her head. He was the whole problem.
“Ow,” Hot Shot yelled.
“Sorry,” Aleta said. Oops. While she hadn’t been paying attention, she’d shoved the scaffolding against Hot Shot’s leg. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” the kid said, rubbing his thigh, but his attention was focused over her shoulder.
Suddenly the weight shifted from her arms. She turned and found Sean pushing the heavy metal piece. She wanted to tell him to go away, but couldn’t formulate the words. She was too busy staring at his impressive shoulders.
“Are you trying to maim my star player, Coach Porter?” Sean asked with a smirk.
“Of course not.”
“I’m shocked—shocked that you’d use such underhanded tactics to win the tournament.”
“You know that I would never—”
“My, my, my,” Sean interrupted, shaking his head. “What is this world coming to? Are you okay, Hot Shot?”
“I’m good, Father,” Hot Shot replied, grinning at them both.
“See. He’s fine,” Aleta said.
“Go on in the office before you put him in the hospital,” Sean said. “We’ll finish up.”
Aleta glared at him.
Unsure whether she didn’t want Sean to get his way or she wanted to punish herself, she helped Sean and Hot Shot assemble the structure in awkward silence. Within minutes, other players arrived for practice and pitched in, the noisy camaraderie making it far less obvious that she and Sean were barely speaking.
When all the bleachers had been erected and the kids were on the courts, Sean walked toward where she stood on the sidelines.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“Still mad at me?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not mad.”
“Well, that’s good because we need to talk.”
“Oh, really. What about now?”
“Do you think Cyrus will show up for the game tomorrow?”
“Oh.” She shot Sean a quick glance, surprised to see worry on his face. She refocused on her team’s practice.
“No,” she said. “I doubt it.”
“Probably not,” he agreed.
“Even Hot Shot hasn’t seen him, and you know how tight they used to be.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be at the game, right?” she asked.
“I’m planning on it.”
She tried to concentrate on her players, but Sean remained where he was.
“Is there something else, Father O’Malley?”
“Yes.”
When he didn’t answer, she shot him another glance. “Well? What is it?”
“I want to tell you about my brother.”
* * *
BUBBA DROVE SLOWLY around his old hood, searching for the two-story apartment where he used to crash. But, damn, the whole building was gone. How could it vanish? The corner was now vacant, a chain-link fence surrounding the property.
Well, good riddance. The place had been a horror show, full of foul odors, screaming kids and stoned parents. But easy to get inside and take shelter in a vacant room. There’d always been an empty apartment, and right now he needed somewhere secure to rest.
He didn’t want to wait any longer to find Delilah, but his head pounded. The burn on his arm ached. Shit. He needed just a little time to recuperate before he found the bitch.
He kept a sharp lookout for cops as he drove away. It’d taken a long time to find his way back to Miami, and he might be running out of time. By now they might have figured out he wasn’t the body in the fire.
He needed a drink.
Bubba turned left, expecting to see the welcome sight of the mini-mart where he’d always bought his brewskis and cigs. He cursed as he cruised past. The place had shut down, the windows boarded over. Happened so long ago the graffiti on the wood had faded.
Bubba kept driving. He still had a little cash from the Lexus bitch. Maybe he could score some weed or, even better, some blow.
He cruised past every corner from the old days. He didn’t recognize anyone on the streets to make a buy from.
So much had changed in eight years. He shook his head, which was a mistake because the sledgehammer inside his brain whacked harder. Eight years. Delilah had stolen eight years from him. He’d become a stranger, an alien in his hometown. He’d once ruled these streets.
Now most of his old gang were dead or in prison.
Three young Hispanic men loitered on what used to be his primo corner. They all wore colors, blue and green, and looked like a bunch of pansies. They eyeballed him as he drove by. No question they had product for sale. Product that he wanted. Needed. He didn’t care what it was.
He was still Bubba the Beast, right? Why was he hesitating? He could eat those guys for lunch.
He slammed on the brakes, climbed out of the vehicle and approached the group. Within minutes, he had what he needed. Next, he found a convenience store and bought a cold six-pack. He popped a can and tossed a pill into his mouth. Opioids were the new blow. Hell, they were practically legal. He’d feel better soon.
He knew a place, a little niche surrounded by chain link in an industrial area that couldn’t have changed. He could back in this piece of shit car and stay hidden from the world until he recovered. Maybe he’d even sleep a little.
And then he’d find Delilah. He knew where her parents lived. He’d even broken in once without her knowing and helped himself to some of her mom’s jewelry. That had been a sweet score, one he’d always wanted to repeat, and now was his chance.
Delilah wouldn’t be living there—she hated the assholes—but they’d know where she was.
And then he’d know, too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EXPRESSIONS FLITTED ACROSS Aleta’s face so quickly Sean couldn’t catch them all, much less figure out her reaction.
“Yo
u want to tell me about your brother?” she asked carefully.
“Let’s go into the office.”
She bit her bottom lip and glanced at the gym floor.
“The kids will survive for ten minutes without our guidance.”
She nodded and moved toward their office.
When they got inside, he shut the door behind him and decided not to sugarcoat the facts. Just put everything out there. The less he thought about it, the better.
He took a deep breath. “My brother was murdered in a drive-by shooting. The killing was part of a gang initiation.”
She plopped into a chair, her eyes wide.
“I wanted you to understand that’s why stopping gang activity is so important to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“This assignment will pave the way for me to join a special unit that deals with gangbangers. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
She swallowed. “But why are you telling me this now?”
He sat opposite her. “You’ve shared a lot with me about your mom and dad, and obviously I didn’t get it. Maybe that’s because after Patrick’s death what happened with my family was very different from what happened with yours. We became closer, leaned on each other to get through the pain.”
“How nice for you,” she said stiffly.
“That’s why I couldn’t understand how you could stay so mad at them, but maybe I just got lucky in the mom and dad department.”
“Maybe so.”
Sean released a breath. Telling her about Patrick hadn’t been easy, but had the telling done any good? Hard to say. She still seemed pissed, but maybe less so. She stared at the floor, head down, as if hard in thought about something.
“Now we need to talk about where you’re going to spend the night,” he said.
She raised her head. “Excuse me?”
“I want you to stay with me until Burnett’s death is confirmed,” he said before she could put up any obstacles to their discussion.
Her mouth dropped open. “In the rectory? Oh, that’ll go over great with your flock.”
“Not here,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his temper. Deliberately misunderstanding him was Aleta’s favorite method of deflection. “In my apartment. I did have a life before I moved into St. Theresa’s.”
“I know that.” She narrowed her eyes.
Was she considering his suggestion?
“Where is it?” she asked.
“Near Coral Gables. Your drive to work will be fifteen minutes longer, but Burnett will never look for you there.”
“True,” she said.
“You’ll be safe.”
“I guess.” She nibbled on her bottom lip.
He grabbed her hand, placed a key in her palm and closed her fingers over it. “I stocked the refrigerator so you’ll have something for breakfast.”
She raised her gaze to his, and he got lost in their troubled depths. What now?
“I’ll stay in my room in the rectory tonight,” he said.
She nodded, but something was obviously still bothering her.
“So what’s the problem?” he demanded. Maybe she wanted him with her. A guy could hope.
“My parents.”
He raised both hands. “Your parents are off-limits. I get that now.”
She shook her head. “Bubba knows where they live.”
“You took him there,” Sean stated. Of course she had.
She nodded miserably. “There was a robbery afterward, and a necklace my mother had inherited from my grandmother, a family heirloom, was stolen.” She swallowed hard, blinking away tears. “The thief had to be Bubba.”
And that’s no doubt why they installed their excellent security system.
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to do what you know you should?”
“Bubba is supposed to be dead.”
“I think you doubt it as much as I do.”
She looked away.
“Were your parents aware of the threats against your life?”
Aleta stared at her clasped hands. “My dad was in court the day I testified.”
Should he mention her parents had separated? If her father had moved out, that meant her mother was alone in the house, which made her even more vulnerable.
“What if your parents believe, as you do, that Burnett is dead? And what if he isn’t?”
“Maybe I should call them and warn them,” she said.
“Do it,” Sean said. “Don’t think about it, Aleta. Make the call and get it over with.”
She raised her chin and glared at him. “I wish you’d quit telling me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
Shouts from the gym floor made her look that direction. More yelling and cursing signaled a fight had erupted among the players, an almost daily occurrence. Looking relieved, Aleta jumped to her feet and made a move to head that way.
Sean placed a hand on her arm.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. He pointed to the phone on her desk. “You make the call.”
* * *
WHEN SEAN LEFT the office, Aleta’s gaze drifted to the phone. All she had to do was call. So why couldn’t she do it?
This was Friday afternoon. Neither of her parents would be home yet. She could leave a voice mail. That way she wouldn’t have to listen to another rant of how their loser daughter had ruined their lives, how that loser’s criminal activity had brought terror into their home. Again.
“Loser.” She closed her eyes against the sound of her mother’s voice spitting out her favorite word for her daughter.
Mom had called her “Loser” more often than she called her “Aleta.”
So often she’d come to believe it. So often that she’d needed to escape into a fuzzy world where everything remained out of focus and couldn’t hurt her.
Yes, she needed to warn them, but she wasn’t ready. Sean would return in a matter of minutes. She didn’t want him to listen to the message she’d leave. Plus, she needed more time to think about what she would say and how she would say it.
Or else the problem was she was a big, fat coward. And then it hit her. Oh, God.
For the first time in a long time, she needed something to take the edge off.
Sick to her stomach at the thought of getting high, Aleta knew she needed to talk to Myra. Right now. Before it was too late.
She squeezed her hands and felt the sharp ridges of the key. Sean was only trying to help. He’d even told her about his brother, what was surely a painful experience for him, hoping she’d forgive him.
She didn’t deserve his help.
She placed the key on his desk where he couldn’t miss it, grabbed her purse and hurried from the office.
Sean stood in the center of the far court with his back toward her, hands on his hips, surrounded by kids.
If she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice her escape.
“Aleta,” he shouted before she reached the exit.
But then, when had she ever been lucky?
She didn’t stop. She ran until she got into her car and sped away from Sunshine Center.
* * *
IN TOTAL DISBELIEF, Sean watched Aleta all but run out of the gymnasium.
What the hell happened? He wanted to go after her but couldn’t leave the kids in the middle of a revolt. Would she be careful, maintain situational awareness as she’d promised? Maybe the conversation with her parents had gone so well she was on her way to their home for a reunion.
Yeah, right. Not enough time had passed for that to occur. So what had gone down?
Returning to the chaos surrounding him, Sean blew his whistle to
silence the arguments.
“Games are over,” he announced.
“What?” Carlos yelled.
“No way,” Rick objected. “We were ahead by ten.”
“Our team wasn’t involved,” Hot Shot protested.
“You stopped playing to watch,” Sean said. “I heard you egg the fight on.”
“That’s not fair,” one of Hot Shot’s teammates protested.
“You guys have got to learn to own up to mistakes. Accept responsibility.”
“Shit,” somebody mumbled.
“Everybody down for twenty,” Sean ordered. “If no one will admit they threw the first punch, then everybody pays.”
“Oh, man.”
The sound of aggrieved protest filled the gym.
But the players dropped to the floor and performed a variety of push-ups, some good, some raggedy and barely qualifying. A few, like Hot Shot, completed the punishment quickly and jumped back to their feet. Others struggled.
Everyone was more subdued afterward. Mainly because they didn’t want to do another twenty.
“Now line up for a ten-minute dribbling drill,” Sean ordered. “Afterward, we’ll start the games over.”
After tip-offs to restart the games, Sean stood on the sidelines trying to keep track of both teams. Tempers ran hot. The kids were antsy. He didn’t dare leave to find Aleta.
He hoped she’d gone to Father Mac, who would surely counsel her to warn her parents. If so, she should return to the gym any minute.
When she didn’t, he called her cell. She didn’t pick up.
After twenty minutes, with the games running smoothly, he jogged to a back window and squinted at the parking lot.
Her car was gone.
His ringtone sounded. “O’Malley,” he answered without checking the caller, hoping it was Aleta.
“Brass read your report, O’Malley,” Sergeant McFadden barked. “You’ve been assigned back to patrol.”
“Yes, sir,” Sean said. That was quick, but considering what he’d put in his report, expected.
“I expect you at roll call tomorrow morning at 6:00 a.m.”
A Cop's Second Chance Page 15
