Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

I was right about it not being a letter.

It’s a newspaper clipping.

I pick it up gingerly, afraid to harm it.

It’s a small square with the headline: Ex-Sheriff George McQueen Laid to Rest on Sunday above an old photo of a man in his forties. A man that would have looked like family even if I hadn’t see his name.

He has my father’s eyes.

He has our ears.

My hands start to shake as I read the article.



Palm Valley’s ex-Sheriff George McQueen was laid to rest on Sunday afternoon at the First Baptist Church on Main Street. McQueen had been battling cancer for the last year, having been put into the Palm Valley hospice before he started undergoing treatment. Aside from controversial arrests, he was also known for a scandal involving his only son, Camden McQueen, back in 2013. While Camden’s name was later cleared by police, his son was never seen or heard from again, and evidence points to his possible death at the hands of a Mexican drug cartel. The investigation has long since closed.

George McQueen served as Sheriff from 1990-2015 and was an advocate for the church and briefly ran for mayor in 2018 before his health started to decline.

He is survived by his wife Raquel and his stepdaughters Kelli and Colleen. Donations may be made to the Baptist church.





The paper slips out of my hands, floating slowly to the counter.

I can hardly breathe, hardly move. My heart is thumping, slow and loud, until it’s all I can hear.

What the fucking fuck did I just read?

I snatch the paper back up, blinking at it, trying to understand the words and what they’re saying.

Sheriff George McQueen.

My grandfather I never met.

My grandfather that my own father told me had died when he was a teenager.

I’ve had a grandfather all this time and never knew about it. I spent my whole life thinking he was dead.

Why would my father lie to me?

Why was my father involved in a “scandal” over twenty years ago, why has he been presumed dead or missing this entire time, and what the fuck does he have to do with drug cartels?

I don’t know what to do with this information.

There’s nowhere for it to go, no space in my brain.

There’s only that zinging feeling at the back of my head, traveling down my spine, the feeling that tells me I was right.

I was raised in a house of lies.

The only thing I know is that I can’t let my parents know I found this. I have to assume that my mother is in on this truth as well. I have to keep it to myself and carry on until I have a better idea of what’s going on.

I have to talk to Ben.

Please, lord, don’t let him already be in on it.

I know I’m running out of time, that my mom could come home at any minute and bust me, so I take out my phone and take a picture of the clipping. Then I put my phone away, stick the clipping back in the envelope, take out a small vial of Krazy Glue from the junk drawer, and carefully glue the flap shut.

Footsteps coming up to the front door.

My mom.

I quickly jam the letter back into the stack of mail and leave it on the counter so it looks like I casually threw it there as I often do.

Then I turn and run as quietly as I can up the stairs to my bedroom, going inside just as I hear the front door open.

“Violet?” my mom calls out.

My heart is racing now, galloping around and around in my chest, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that I’m on the edge of losing control, of losing any sense of understanding who I am, who my family is.

“I’m here!” I manage to cry out, my voice breaking.

“Okay!” she calls back, and I hear her go into the kitchen.

I wait a few moments, staring blankly at some of the city shots I have on my wall. There’s a black and white print of the ferry building, swamped in fog, looking like something out of a film noir. I took it when I was still in high school, one of those days where my ex-boyfriend Hayden and I would roam the streets, pretending to live bigger lives than we did. And now, with one letter, I feel my life is growing too large, too fast.

If all of that about my father and grandfather is true…

Who sent that letter? Why wasn’t it addressed? They obviously wanted Dad to know that his father had passed away, so why not a phone call?

“Hey, Vi, were you making something?” my mom shouts up, sounding distracted. “The kettle is on.”

Crap. “Uh yeah, was going to make some tea.”

“What kind? I’ll make it for you.”

I take a deep breath and make my way down the stairs, trying to appear as casual and normal as possible.

My mother is standing in the kitchen and rifling through the cupboard where we keep the tea and coffee. I eye the stack of mail. She’s already gone through it, and I can see the envelope folded up and sticking out of the back of her jeans.

I quickly avert my eyes and get two mugs out. “You want some too?”

When she turns around to face me, she shakes a box of green tea and jasmine at me, smiling.

“I need the caffeine. This okay?”

But her smile seems forced, on edge, her eyes wary. I wonder if mine look the same.

I don’t think she suspects a thing.

And now I suspect everything.





Chapter Two





Vicente





Sinaloa, Mexico


“Always keep your promises.”

It was something my father often said, like it was some bit of personal wisdom of his, a catchphrase with a copyright. He says it in such a grave way, like this type of honor is more important than any other. He holds being a man of your word above all else.

It doesn’t matter that he’s killed thousands, wounded thousands more, made billions, ruined millions. He wants you to believe that above all else he is honorable and good.

I can’t take it seriously. Especially when I know of more than a few occasions when he gave his word and then did the opposite. But in his twisted, warped logic, he never sees that he’s at fault. There’s always an excuse.

But tonight there is no excuse.