Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

“Ben,” I say in a hush. “He’s in here. He’s looking for me.”

“Can he see you?”

“No. I’m behind the posters. I can see him through a crack.”

And the minute I say that, he moves out of my sight.

Fuck.

Part of me realizes how ridiculous this is. There are at least five other people in the store, people who would help me if I needed it.

But would they?

Too many times I’ve heard stories of people being attacked in front of others, people who yell for help, and no one comes to their aid. People these days are too afraid to stick their neck out and help each other. There are too many guns, too many crazies, too many criminals. Even in the most liberal city in America, I wonder how many San Franciscans would take the chance.

But I can’t think like that. I have to believe in the good in people, even as the world spins to an even worse future.

Run for the door, I tell myself. The people in here will protect you. The scrawny clerk probably has a gun beneath the counter.

Do it.

“I can’t see him anymore,” I tell Ben. “I’m going to run.”

“Violet,” Ben warns.

“Hold on.” I move the phone away from my ear, clutching it in my hand like a weapon. I can hear his muffled voice telling me not to do it.

I don’t care.

I need to know.

And I need to go home.

I take in a deep breath and jump out from behind the posters.

The man is ten feet away, his back to me.

He’ll see me run out, but I don’t care.

I start running down the aisle, bumping into t-shirts that swing on their hangers, until I’m almost out the door. I give the clerk a look, one that I hope says “stop that man if he comes after me” and not “I just stole a bunch of your merchandise.”

Then I’m outside on the street and running across traffic again, almost getting nailed by an SUV, before I round the corner about to head home.

But I have to know. I pause, turn back, and go to the corner of the building, half-hidden, watching the door to the shop, watching for the man to come after me.

I raise the phone to my ear. “Ben,” I tell him. “I made it outside. He hasn’t followed me yet.”

“Fucking just go home now. Or I’ll call Dad to make you.”

“I’m going, I’m going, I just have to see.”

And I stand there and watch for at least another minute as my heart rate returns to normal.

Finally the door opens and the man steps out.

“There he is.” I shrink back against the wall and peer out.

The man looks up and down the street then slowly starts walking up Haight toward the park.

“What’s he doing?” Ben asks.

“He’s walking up to Golden Gate Park. It took him forever to leave the store. He doesn’t seem to be looking for me anymore.”

“So maybe the whole fucking thing was in your head again?”

“Maybe,” I admit.

But thinking that doesn’t make me feel any better.

“I’m going home now.”

“Good,” he says. “I’ll see you this weekend. And I need to talk to you some more…in person.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “See you Friday.”

I hang up and take in one long inhale as the fog starts up again, sliding past me down the street like a ghost.

I’m in no mood for this film noir atmosphere.

I go straight home and try to push the last fifteen minutes out of my head.

I think of Vicente instead.

And smile.





Chapter Ten





Vicente




I’m dreaming.

I can’t remember the last time I dreamed.

It feels so long ago.

Maybe I was a child.

Twelve years old, tossing in my bed, welcoming dreams to take me away from the days where I yearned to hold on to my childhood while learning how to shoot a gun.

But like in those dreams, I’m fully aware. Not in control, just an observer who quietly watches the world crash and burn.

In this dream I am in a safe house, one of the many I was shuttled into growing up. For a while there, things got pretty bad. My father didn’t know who he could trust around his family.

So Marisol, my mother, and I were under watch of a family friend, Diego. Diego was the closest thing I ever had to a father. He was always old, always had a swoop of thick grey hair and a mustache I used to liken to a caterpillar. He’s dead now, passed away from cancer, which in a way seems like a rarity when so many die at the hands of another. Sometimes I wonder if it was better to go like Diego did, old and in pain, having lived a long life, or to die younger with a bullet to the head.

My father was visibly upset after Diego died—he was one of his most trusted friends and certainly the one who stuck around to the bitter end. But even then, I remember my father put his hand on my shoulder and told me it was better to live like a king and die young than to die at an old age without having lived.

I always thought that was an odd thing to say, especially as my father also taught me how important family was, and how without it, a man truly had nothing.

Just another thing I’ll never understand about him. Family, blood, was everything, and yet he sometimes acted like it would only get you killed in the end.

In my dream, a bare lightbulb hangs in a dark room, swinging, casting harsh light on our faces. We all sit with our backs against the wall, hands tied. Normally the safe houses are nice places, but this one has no furniture, no windows. It barely seems to be a room—it stretches into black infinity.

We are waiting for something horrible. We are no longer hiding. We are no longer protected.

Diego starts murmuring a prayer to Santa Muerte, the Saint of Death. When I look over at him he starts crying blood, shaking his head so it flies everywhere. It lands on my cheek with a hiss.

Then the shape of a door slowly appears, a glowing white outline, like someone shining a spotlight from the other side.

The light turns red.

Violet.

The brightest purple.

The door opens and I have to shield my eyes.

A figure walks in, taking careful steps. The light blinds everything except the silhouette. Tall, in a long robe that drags as the figure walks.

It stops right in front of us. Diego’s prayer fades into nothing.