by Shari Hearn
Leaving Sinful
Miss Fortune World: Sinful Stories, Volume 6
Shari Hearn
Published by J&R Fan Fiction, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 by Shari Hearn
All rights reserved.
This story is based on a series created by Jana DeLeon. The author of this story has the contractual rights to create stories using the Miss Fortune world. Any unauthorized use of the Miss Fortune world for story creation is a violation of copyright law.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and the publisher, J&R Fan Fiction, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Author Bio
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Also By Shari Hearn
Acknowledgements
A HUGE THANKS TO JANA DeLeon for allowing other authors to write stories in her Miss Fortune world.
To Carla and Kathleen: thank you both for your wonderful notes.
Cover designed by Susan Coils at www.coverkicks.com
Chapter One
SINFUL, LOUISIANA – July 21 – Midnight
“Go-Go-Go!”
Harrison barked out the orders as I raced around my bedroom gathering as many articles of clothing that would fit in two duffle bags.
Just ten minutes ago I was asleep. He had a key to my place; Director Morrow had seen to that. It had always been a backup plan that if my location was ever compromised, Harrison would come extricate me. No matter the time. No matter the place.
Now was that time.
I emptied my dresser drawers into one duffle bag, tucking my trusted nine-millimeter between a couple pairs of shorts. In another bag, I threw in several pairs of yoga pants, jeans, shirts, shoes and sandals. I raced back into the closet and tugged on the hidden latch, sliding the closet panel aside, revealing the secret storage unit Marge had installed for her weapons collection. I grabbed several handguns.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “We need to go.”
“The real Sandy-Sue won’t need these,” I said, wrapping the guns with several pairs of yoga pants.
After securing the guns inside my duffel bag, I dropped to the floor on the side of the bed.
“What the hell? Fortune, come on, we don’t have much time.”
“I need Merlin. He’s hiding under the bed.” I peered into the darkness and saw two green eyes staring at me. Frightened eyes. “It’s okay, Merlin, come on, just come with me.”
Harrison grabbed my arm and pulled me up onto my knees. “You know you can’t take him.”
“He’s my cat. Who’s going to take care of him?”
“It’s okay. I’ve got it handled.”
“I have to call Ida Belle and Gertie.”
“You can’t call them. Fortune, you know the drill.”
“Carter.”
He shook his head. “YOU can’t tell anyone.”
“I have to see Carter before I leave.”
“Dammit, Fortune! We have to go. You want us both to get killed? Because I’m getting married in a few months, and I swear, if you get me killed before then...”
I saw the fear in his eyes. I grabbed my cellphone from my nightstand. He held out his hand.
My life as Sandy-Sue Morrow was now coming to an end. I wouldn’t need that phone anymore. My eyes stung with tears as I handed it to him. My life for the past seven weeks. Now over.
We rushed down the darkened stairs. We couldn’t turn on any lights. Light was our enemy now.
“How certain is Morrow that I’ve been compromised?” I whispered as we rushed down to the living room.
“Certain enough,” he whispered back.
Instead of exiting through the door, Harrison ushered me over to a window big enough for both of us to step through. He unlocked it and lifted the pane. His gun drawn, he slipped out first. I followed, also clutching my weapon.
A darkened figure waited for us outside the window. I pointed my gun at it. “Who’s this?”
“I said YOU couldn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t. I felt it was necessary to inform local law enforcement,” Harrison said.
Carter stepped out from the shadows. I rushed into his arms.
“You have thirty seconds,” Harrison said. He stepped a few feet back to give us a semblance of privacy. It was against CIA regulations, but Harrison was one of the good guys.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Carter.
I pulled him to me and spent the remaining twenty-seven seconds with my lips locked with his. I needed to sear this kiss into my memory.
“Time,” Harrison said finally.
Carter continued kissing me. I gently pulled away from him. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked away the tears, and I, mine. I turned and followed Harrison into a black SUV.
My heart ached as I watched Carter slump against the house as we pulled away. Ten minutes later Harrison sped past the “Leaving Sinful” sign. I looked back. On the other side of the sign a smiling alligator greeted motorists with a “Welcome to Sinful” message. The same greeting I had cursed seven weeks ago when my bus brought me to what I thought would be hell.
Little did I know then it was taking me home.
“Goodbye,” I whispered.
Chapter Two
I WAS DREAMING OF MERLIN. Not Carter, not Ida Belle, not Gertie. But Merlin. In the dream I had snuck back to Marge’s house to get him. I crept up the stairs and entered the bedroom. Ahmad was sitting in a side chair, holding a gun to his head.
“I’ve already taken care of the deputy and the two old ladies,” he said. “They begged me to spare them.” He laughed. “Now it’s the cat’s turn.”
I woke with a start, my neck stiff and painful as I straightened up in my seat. Harrison was driving.
“Bad dream?”
I nodded and groaned. Though it was still dark, I could see the outlines of trees. Some hills. A lighted billboard caught my eye advertising an ice-cream store in Brenham.
“Where the hell is Brenham?” I had my “morning” voice. Deeper. Sexy, if I do say so myself. A voice I had hoped to someday share while waking up next to Carter.
“An hour and a half outside of Austin.”
“Something tells me that’s not where I’m ending up.”
He shook his head.
I took a moment to fully awaken before asking, “Do I get the privilege of knowing where that will be?”
“In the glove box,” Harrison said.
I flipped on the overhead light and opened the glove box. Inside I found a plastic pouch containing a wad of cash, a couple of credit cards and a phony California driver’s license issued to “Delilah Garrity,” age 29.
“Delilah? Don’t tell me, this is another relative of Morrow’s.”
“Nope, this one’s on my side of the family. She’s a daughter of one of my mother’s cousins,” Harrison said. “Her Aunt Olive passed away and, unbeknownst to the rest of the family, you’re there to sell her trailer.”
“I didn
’t hear you right. Did you say trailer?”
“Yep. A fifty-five-plus trailer park in a town called Superstition City, located fifty miles in the desert outside of Phoenix.”
“You hate me, right?”
“It’s a double-wide,” Harrison said, defensively. “Three bedrooms, big screen TV, air conditioner. And you have a little plot of fake-grass lawn with a couple of folding chairs. Just, you know, don’t walk on it in your bare feet. It’s about a hundred and twenty degrees there right now and the plastic grass will melt the skin off your feet.”
I shook my head. “You got this together pretty quickly. When did the aunt die?”
“About a month ago. I set it all up then as a possible cover in case we had to move you. My mom said the real Delilah is scheduled to go there in the fall and sell the trailer, so you’ll have the place for a couple of months if need be.”
I read the sheet of my new bio. I work as a waitress in a restaurant in Los Angeles while waiting for my big break in Hollywood. I’ve worked as an extra in several films and TV shows, most notably as a cadaver in an episode of a popular crime show. In addition, I’ve also had some paying gigs as a voice-over artist, specializing in crying babies and cat meows.
“Crying babies? Tell me this is made up.”
Harrison shook his head. “I remember meeting Delilah once. She has a different cry for wet diaper and one for hunger. Ask her about it and she’ll demonstrate. Again and again and again.”
“I want it noted that I think all of this is unnecessary.”
During the night Harrison had filled me in on why Director Morrow thought I had been compromised. The “intel” had come from a snitch with the nickname of “Cube.” I’d worked with this guy before and found him to be a serial liar. Harrison ignored my pleas to take me back home.
“Look, you’re still a CIA agent. If Morrow says we get you the hell out of Sinful, that’s what we do. He just wants to be cautious.”
“I have friends in Sinful. You and I both know that doesn’t happen for me very often.”
“I know,” he said softly. “And I really hated taking you away.”
I knew he did.
“We’re hoping it won’t be long. But, in the meantime, no contact with anyone back there. I mean it.”
He dropped me off at a bus station in Austin for a 10:45 AM Greyhound to Phoenix, where a rental car waited in my new name. Before he said goodbye, he handed me a case containing a laptop.
“Let me know when you get there. Your bio has my new email address. You have one as well. CryingBaby007.”
We hugged before he left. “I’m really sorry,” he whispered.
For the next twenty-four hours I sat on a bus staring at the countryside, thinking of Carter, thinking of Ida Belle and Gertie, thinking of Sinful.
And yes, I was treated to a real crying baby, sitting with her mother across the aisle from me. And I learned something. The cries for wet diaper ARE different than for I’m hungry. If anything strengthened my resolve to quit the CIA, this was it.
Chapter Three
I STEPPED OFF THE BUS and into hell. Hot didn’t adequately describe it. It wasn’t swamp steamy like Sinful, but it wasn’t even noon yet and the outdoor thermometer in the bus terminal topped 105. The inside of my rental car was even worse. The car had been sitting out in the hot sun all morning and my butt would never forgive me. Or my hands. I grabbed at the scalding steering wheel and let out a string of curse words.
The drive to Superstition City took a little over an hour and included a stop at a store to pick up a sandwich and a few other provisions, most notably, beer. I’d been gone from Sinful for about 36 hours. By now, Ida Belle and Gertie would be worried sick. They would have hounded Carter about my whereabouts. He didn’t know, of course, and wasn’t supposed to tell them anything about seeing me leave. I hoped he did. I didn’t want them to worry, but I knew they would.
By now one of them would have taken Merlin. Neither Ida Belle nor Gertie were cat ladies, and Carter and Marie had dogs. Maybe Ally would take him. She seemed to love him when she was living with me.
Ally. I felt sick to my stomach. Ally never knew I was a CIA assassin-in-hiding. She never even knew my real name. What was she going to think? That I just up and left? She’d be hounding Carter as well, demanding an explanation into my disappearance. I didn’t envy him. He hated lying.
I was so lost in thought I almost missed the turnoff to the Desert Acres Mobile Home Park and Resort. I hit the brakes and swung to the right, my tires sliding on the loose dirt road. I stopped and let the dust settle before driving forward another quarter mile.
Desert Acres was a 55-plus mobile home park, announced one sign. Another sign directed me to cut my speed to 20 mph, while a large billboard featured the smiling faces of a group of seniors and touted all the amenities: a bowling alley, two heated pools, shuffleboard, and pickleball courts.
I cruised past one of the pools. Not a soul around. Too hot to even swim.
Clubhouse A showed some life, attracting several older women in shorts who shuffled past the sign announcing today’s movie before disappearing inside.
After picking up the key from the front office, I drove to “Aunt Olive’s” mobile home, a pale-blue double-wide with a fake grass lawn out front. It was hellish inside, so I cranked up the air conditioner and put away my groceries.
Invading another person’s space, particularly one who has died, is always an uncomfortable feeling. I remembered feeling the same way when I had first slept in Marge’s guest bed, ate at her dining table and showered in her bathroom; it felt like such a violation.
A People magazine from last month sat on Olive’s coffee table. I wondered if she had read it all before her sudden death. A stack of mail was piled on the dining-room table, next to a section of newspaper containing the daily crossword puzzle. Dated the day she died. Olive had filled in half of the squares.
I entered her bedroom. According to Harrison, Olive had died in her sleep. Neighbors had come in after that and cleaned, making sure there were clean sheets, fresh towels and everything pretty much tidied up. On the nightstand was a novel, as well as a CPAP machine, indicating Olive had had sleep apnea. I picked up the book and noticed that she only had about 25 pages left. Maybe I’d get around to finishing it in honor of Olive.
On my way back through the hallway I heard the toilet begin to run. After a few jiggles of the handle, it stopped. I wondered how many times the toilet had gone through its fill-up, leak, fill-up cycle since Olive’s death. And did she hear it running while she was dying? A weird thought, I know, but I’d always been fascinated that a house can suddenly have its life taken from it, but the house noises live on. The toilet runs. The phone rings and a message is recorded. The icemaker in the freezer dumps a load of ice in the bin. The clocks still keep the time. There’s just no one there to see or hear it anymore.
After unpacking and eating my sandwich, I opened the laptop and connected to the internet.
Dear Joe, I began my message to Harrison, using the new email account he had set up earlier. I didn’t think there was a need to use a coded message but knew if I didn’t he’d flip out. Well, I made it. Thanks for taking me to the bus stop. Sitting next to a crying baby for 24 hours has given me new thoughts about increasing my voice-over repertoire. I don’t know how to return the favor. But I’m certainly thinking of ways. Yours, Delilah.
I then opened Facebook and accessed the account of one Smitty Ketchum, something I had never shared with Harrison. A phony account I had set up with Ida Belle and Gertie back in Sinful, just in case I ever had to leave suddenly. For several weeks now, I’d packed it with phony posts of dog videos and car shows in case there were prying eyes, though I doubted there ever would be. I had built the character of an older man and his wife, Cleo, leading a most ordinary life. Nothing would stick out to anyone. I even had over a hundred “friends,” people I had found on an RVers Facebook page who had accepted my friend requests. By all outside appe
arances, I looked like any other senior out there. Ida Belle and Gertie were among my “friends.” They knew if they ever received a private message from Smitty over Facebook that I had been relocated. They’d probably been hunched over their computers for the past day waiting for me to message them.
Hello, Miss Ida Belle, I wrote in my Smitty persona. Well, we’re on the road again and staying at a senior trailer park outside Phoenix. Cleo insisted we leave Louisiana because of rumors of a monster hurricane in the Gulf. I told her to stop getting weather information from The National Enquirer, but, you know Cleo. Haha. Caution is her middle name. Hoping to return home soon once Cleo realizes the storm has failed to materialize. Poor thing’s getting paranoid in her old age, I’m afraid. I’m enclosing my address should you wish to visit while we’re here.
I gave her the address and clicked send, then went to Gertie’s Facebook page and scrolled through her photos. I could feel my throat constricting as I choked back my emotions. A batch of pictures had been shared since my arrival in Sinful. I wasn’t in any of them, Gertie was careful about that. I’d always thought this whole Facebook thing of sharing photos of your life with people was a bit self-indulgent. Now I was grateful she had. I smiled as the memories flashed by: Celia taking a tumble, her granny panties on full display; Marie delivering her election speech; Gertie and her inflatable alligator. I scrolled through photos of the July 4th festivities: Sheriff Lee asleep on his horse; Walter; and Carter. I touched his face on the screen and sighed.
A knock at the front door brought me out of my reminiscing. I opened the door to two older women as a blast of hot air assaulted my face.
Both mid- to late-sixties. One with short, red hair, the other shoulder-length gray hair. Red was five-three, Gray was taller, about five-seven. Both wore shorts and sleeveless tops. Threat-level: Low.
“Howdy,” Red said. “My name is Bucky Schmidt.”
“And I’m Rosa Gonzales,” Gray said.
