ALETA BLINKED AT the sight of O’Malley’s bare chest and flat abdomen as an inappropriate and unwanted tingle of arousal tugged at her. She swallowed. Had he really removed his clerical collar? Were priests allowed to do that?
This dude was seriously ripped. Priests didn’t work out, did they? No way was he a priest.
But he did have game. No question about it. O’Malley raced around the court and kept up with Hot Shot as if he were a pro.
When she asked if he could play, he’d said It’s been a while. Whatever he did in his life before coming to St. Theresa’s, he’d played a lot of games.
She was proud of Hot Shot for following the rules, couldn’t deny a surge of satisfaction, certain her influence and coaching had nudged him in the right direction. Too often when her kids committed a foul, they argued and refused to admit the error.
After Hot Shot sank a three-pointer, O’Malley yelled, “Good one, kid.”
Hot Shot grinned, obviously enjoying himself. For the first time in a long while, he had an opponent who offered actual competition. Maybe having O’Malley around would be good for some of the kids.
Ten minutes into the game, murmurs shot through the watching crowd. Intent on the action, Aleta vaguely noted the kids shifting, darting looks toward the door. She switched her focus from the court to discover Ice Pick swaggering in. She stiffened. As he had yesterday, he wore red and yellow, the colors of the Devil’s Posse.
She shot a glance back to the game, but O’Malley remained so intent on blocking Hot Shot that he hadn’t noticed Ice Pick’s appearance. Maybe she could get rid of him before what was certain to be spontaneous combustion fueled by too much testosterone. The last thing she wanted was for her kids to witness violence here. This was a safe place, a refuge from the turmoil they faced elsewhere.
She marched toward the gangbanger, but the jerk had already engaged Cyrus in conversation, no doubt still trying to lure him over to the dark side.
“Hey, beautiful,” Ice Pick said as she approached, flashing his gold teeth.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I came to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I heard some thangs about you, girl, from my homie Marco.” The gangbanger checked out her body with an insulting sweep of his eyes. “Word is you used to wear some colors your own damn self.”
Aleta glanced at Cyrus, who watched their conversation with rapt attention.
“Excuse us, please, Cyrus,” she said.
“Ah, come on,” the kid complained.
She moved toward the corner of the gymnasium. As she’d intended, Ice Pick followed her.
When she looked back, Cyrus threw her a hurt look. She sighed, but it was better the kid not hear this exchange.
“You’re trespassing,” she told Ice Pick. “I want you to leave right now and don’t come back.”
“That’s not such friendly talk,” he said, shaking his head. “I heard you used to be real friendly back in the day when you were a member of the Street Sisters.”
She sucked in a quick breath. She hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I’m wondering if your bosses at Sunshine Center know about your not-so-sunshiny past.” He made squiggles in the air.
Was that motion supposed to represent sunshine? Please.
“Wonder all you want,” she said. “It’s none of your business.”
“Maybe I should tell that badass priest over there that you were a gang girl.” Ice Pick motioned toward the court with his chin.
Aleta stared at him. “Are you threatening me? Really?”
“Just giving you a heads-up, bitch.”
Before answering, she focused on the pockets of Ice Pick’s baggy shorts, the only spot on him where he could hide a weapon. Was this jerk packing a gun? Or a knife? She shivered. Or an actual ice pick? The thought of being stabbed scared her far worse than getting shot.
“Do you want to know something?” she asked.
He laughed without humor. “I already know plenty.”
“I promise you, you don’t know this. Since I got out of that life, I’ve lived believing one thing.”
Ice Pick narrowed his eyes. “What you going on about now, girl? And why should I care?”
“I believe everyone deserves a second chance, and that includes you.”
He leaned toward her. “You’re bat-shit crazy.”
“But you have to earn that second chance,” she continued, standing her ground. “You have to want it.”
“I’m golden. I don’t need no second chance. I don’t want nothing from you.”
“Come on,” she urged. “Don’t you want to learn how to play basketball? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Ice Pick shot a glance toward the game in progress. “I know how to play b-ball.”
“Then why not prove it?”
“I don’t have to prove shit to you, girl.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Ice Pick balled his hands into fists at his sides. Afraid he might strike her, Aleta stiffened and prepared to duck.
But he relaxed his stance. “Ice Pick ain’t afraid of nothing in this world.”
“Yeah? What about in the next world? Are you afraid of anything there? Have you thought about that?”
His eyes went so cold, so hard, that Aleta almost took a step away. Ice Pick must have taken her comment as disrespect, the worst possible thing for these proud but clueless young men. She considered yelling for O’Malley. The gangbanger must have sensed her thoughts because he glanced toward the game.
He refocused on her. “You are one crazy bitch.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m telling you, you better watch your ass. There’s people who know who you are, and they be watching you.”
“No kidding?” Aleta folded her arms. “I’ll bet there are people who know who you are, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.”
Ice Pick waved an arm in disgust. Shaking his head, he turned and jogged toward the exit.
Apparently, she’d confused him.
Aleta released a long slow breath and followed Ice Pick to the door. She watched as he slid into his bright blue muscle car. He gunned the engine, backed up and slammed on the brakes with a screech. She relaxed when the vehicle sped away. She’d done it. She’d gotten rid of the recruiter before O’Malley spotted him and an all-out battle ensued.
What if Ice Pick had been carrying a gun as O’Malley alleged? What if the gangbanger shot him? Oh, God. She closed her eyes against the thought of bright red blood spreading onto the court.
She hated the idea of metal detectors and walls to keep people out, but she hated the idea of a killing even more.
Okay. So some gangbanger named Marco knew her from her days as a Street Sister. She’d always thought everyone from that part of her past had disappeared or died. But maybe she was wrong. After all, she’d survived, if only just barely. Why couldn’t someone else?
Ice Pick claimed mysterious people were watching her. A trickle of unease hopscotched down her spine. No one besides Bubba would care what she was doing, and he was safely in prison for the rest of his life. Exactly where he belonged.
Bubba Burnett was the only ghost from her past that she was afraid of.
Father Mac knew all about her pathetic life as a gang member, and he’d forgiven her for everything she’d done.
Now if only she could forgive herself.
With a sigh, she turned to reenter the gym and bumped into the bare chest of Father Sean O’Malley.
“Was that Ice Pick?” O’Malley blotted sweat from his ribs with one of the towels she kept for the kids as he stared in the direction of the retreating taillights.
“I got rid of him,” Aleta said, stepping backward, away from the pure male essence of the man. She needed to look away from him. Why couldn’t she look away?
SEAN SHIFTED HIS gaze from the disappearing muscle car and focused on Aleta. Her pretty face was uncharacteristically pale, her luscious mouth tight.
“What did he say to you?”
She shrugged gracefully, as if the encounter had been meaningless. But she refused to meet his gaze, which told him something else.
“Nothing important,” she said.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were busy. I handled it.”
“That was foolish, Aleta. Ice Pick is dangerous.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she said.
“It doesn’t appear that way to me.”
“Look, O’Malley,” she said. “You just got here. I’ve been dealing with these young men for a long time.”
“Young men?” Sean used the towel he’d grabbed to mop sweat from his face. “Ice Pick is at least your age, maybe a few years older.”
She shook her head, then glanced over his shoulder toward the court. “Is the game over?”
“Yes.”
“Who won?”
“Hot Shot.”
“Because you let him win.” She darted a look at him, but quickly looked away. She was hiding something. What?
Sean folded his arms. “Like you said, the kid is good.”
“Yeah, he is.” She released a huge sigh. “I just need to keep him out of trouble.”
From the yelling and sounds of dribbling behind him, he assumed the kids had restarted their games.
“Look,” he said. “You know that Father Mac brought me here because he’s worried about a situation with gangs and theft. Do you really think those aren’t problems?”
“Let’s go into my office to talk.”
“Good idea.”
She started toward her office, but turned back and held up a hand.
“Would you put your shirt on, please?”
Sean grinned. Was his bare chest the source of her unease?
“Of course, my child,” he said with a slight bow.
He retrieved his shirt and shrugged it over his shoulders as he followed her into a small office cluttered with athletic equipment of every kind, although her desktop contained neat stacks of paper. She removed a deflated basketball from the visitor’s chair and he took a seat, fastening his shirt buttons.
She sat behind her desk, folded her hands and leveled her gaze at him. “Thank you for clothing yourself, Father O’Malley.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
But he knew she was lying when she picked up a pencil and began tapping its eraser on the desk.
“We need to set some ground rules,” she said.
“Ground rules?”
“All games have rules.”
“I don’t consider my purpose here a game.”
She blinked. “Fair enough, but the kids are required to wear at least a tank top on the court.”
“I apologize,” Sean said. “In the future, I’ll make sure I’m wearing a T-shirt. I got overheated.”
“Because you’re not used to wearing a collar?” she asked with a sly smile.
He shrugged. Now they were playing a game. Its title was Who Is Father O’Malley? Aleta’s favorite sport.
“Tell me about your rules,” he said.
“I meant how you and I are going to work together. You apparently know your way around a basketball court.”
“I played in school.”
“You mean in seminary?” she asked pointedly, cocking a brow.
Again Sean shrugged. He couldn’t stop her from probing or thinking what she wanted, but for some reason didn’t want to lie to her.
“So you could help coach a team?”
“Sure,” he said.
“I’m thinking about starting a tournament. We’d divide the kids into two teams and each work with one.”
“Not a problem.”
“But I want to give everyone a chance to play,” she said. “I hate it when the little ones like Cyrus don’t get to participate. Are you okay with that?”
Sean smiled. He’d never met a more bleeding heart do-gooder than Aleta. “Very democratic, but the more skilled players won’t be happy.”
“They need to learn teamwork.”
“That’s not my definition of teamwork.”
“I don’t think I want to know your definition.”
“Too bad,” he said. This woman had game of her own. He’d like to play one-on-one with her. Preferably in a bed.
“I’m going to put Hot Shot on your team,” Aleta said. “You can probably push him better than I can.”
Sean nodded in agreement. “Shouldn’t my office be here in the gym rather than next to Father Mac? If the kids ever do seek me out, I should be closer.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.” She bit her lip, obviously considering. “Too bad there’s only one office.”
Sean surveyed the messy space. Plenty of room for two in here.
“We could share this one,” he suggested.
“Oh. Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, also glancing around. She frowned, apparently not liking what she saw.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Sean said. “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”
“It’s not that bad,” she protested.
“And I’ll bet Father Mac has an extra desk somewhere for me so I won’t encroach on your space.”
“I suppose.” She drew the word out as if searching for another solution.
“Great. I’ll speak to Father Mac.”
She closed her eyes, and Sean knew he’d won. This assignment was looking better all the time.
“Will the kids come to practice if we set up a tournament?” he asked. “That’s the only way to improve their skills.”
“They like to play, so, yeah, I think so. Are there any other sports you could coach?”
He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”
She stared at him. “I’m talking about the kids.”
“So am I. What did you think I meant?”
Shaking her head, she said, “Baseball? Soccer?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Good. The more activities we can offer, the more they’ll come here instead of hanging out with gang members.”
“I’m also a black belt in karate, so I could start a beginner’s class.”
Her lips tightened. “That sounds violent.”
“Self-defense. Don’t these kids live in a violent world?”
“Most of them, yes.” She sighed. “All of them.”
“So knowing a few defensive moves might be beneficial for your kids.”
“Maybe.” She tapped the pencil against the desk again. “How long do you intend to remain at St. Theresa’s?”
“The time frame is up to my superiors.”
“Bishop Murphy?”
“And higher powers.” Sean cast his eyes heavenward.
Aleta gave a short laugh. “So you take your marching orders directly from God?”
“Don’t you?”
Throwing up her arms, she sat back in her chair, making it squeak. “Why can’t you just answer a question?”
He shifted in his seat. Playing with her was fun, but he needed to stay focused on his mission. Aleta provided a sweet distraction he had trouble resisting.
“How long I’m here depends on my success in getting rid of the gangs. Father Mac is worried about missing money, and he believes gang members are responsible.”
She leaned forward again. “I don’t think the thief has anything to do with my kids or gang recruitment.”
“Not even as part of an initiation?”
“No.”
“I agree. But why do you say that?”
“Mainly because of the timing. The money always goes missing on a Sunday after services. The kids aren’t around then.”
Sean settled back into his chair to think about that. She’d provided a good clue. Father Mac believed gangs were behind the theft, but what Aleta said made sense.
When he glanced at her, he found her watching him.
“Do you have a suspect in mind?” he asked.
“No, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. All I’ve come up with is the thief has to be someone who attends St. Theresa’s on a regular basis.”
He nodded, knowing exactly what he had to do next: install those much-needed surveillance cameras. How many roadblocks would Father Mac put up?
BUBBA BURNETT KEPT his gaze on the gray concrete floor as he followed a guard down the narrow hallway toward the prison kitchen. He couldn’t let anyone see his eyes, or he’d give himself away.
His heart pounded. He couldn’t control his breathing. His legs felt heavy, as if he were moving through waist-high mud.
Everything had fallen into place exactly the way the dearly departed Roscoe described. It’d taken two weeks, but his turn for kitchen duty finally fell the same day the refrigerated truck made a delivery.
All I need to do is keep calm and follow the plan.
The heels on the guard’s shoes were worn down on one side. He needed to buy a new pair. Too bad he’d never make that purchase. So, hey, maybe he was doing the sucker a favor. He’d avoid the discomfort of having to break in a new pair of shoes.
Just before he reached the kitchen door, Bubba glanced behind him. A fellow inmate named Scott was there, another dead man walking.
Now or never.
Bubba felt for the shiv hidden in his trousers and stepped out of line. Scott looked up, surprised by his action. Good. Bubba stuck out a foot and tripped Scott midstride. He went down hard to the concrete, grunting in pain as he hit the floor.
The guard turned with an oath, and Bubba rammed the shiv into the uniform with all of his strength and twisted. The guard went down, too.
Bubba snatched the guard’s nightstick from his belt and slammed it against Scott’s skull before he could rise. He collapsed without a sound.
Breathing hard, the stick raised for another blow, Bubba stared at the men on the floor. Neither stirred. Two down.
Now for the cook, who would be waiting for his assistants to arrive.
Bubba took the keys from the guard, entered the kitchen and easily took care of the wide-eyed cook with a cast iron skillet.
He dragged the guard and Scott into the kitchen and locked the door. For good measure, he shoved two heavy tables against the door to keep anyone else out. They’d get in eventually, but he’d be long gone.
Roscoe had been right. This was too easy.
The hard part would be the truck—damn truck sure as shit better not be late. The driver should be waiting for him to open the door. Roscoe said sometimes there were two drivers. Bubba frowned. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed Roscoe already. The job would have been easier with two.
No, it was better never to trust anyone. Look what had happened when he’d trusted that bitch Aleta.
But her time was coming. He hardened as he pictured her on the floor begging for mercy.
And even if there were two drivers, he’d handle the situation. They didn’t call him Bubba the Beast for nothing. He rotated his neck, hearing it crack.
Besides, what more could they do to him? He already had two life sentences. Even if some hard-assed judge slammed him with the death penalty, it would take longer than he had to live for the state of Florida to execute him.
He went through the guard’s pockets but found nothing of use. Not even a wallet. Shit. He needed cash. And he’d been hoping for a cell phone, despite the warden’s decree that guards not bring them inside the house. He snatched the guard’s cheapo watch off his wrist and buckled it to his own.
Six thirteen a.m. He was right on schedule. The driver expected the doors to open at 6:15.
Bubba moved to the door and pressed the button. Early bird gets the worm.
A truck sat in the loading zone. One man exited the driver’s side.
Bubba glanced at the camera high over the door and resisted shooting a bird. Was anyone even watching? It wouldn’t be long until someone noticed something was wrong and came running to stop him.
You’re too late, suckers. I’m outta here.
ALETA BLEW HER WHISTLE when Jose pushed Cyrus in a blatant foul. Off balance, the kid went down to all fours and rolled over with a pained yell.
Hot Shot heard the commotion and moved from the other court to confront Jose.
Aleta held up a hand to stop Cyrus’s self-appointed protector. “I’ll take care of it.”
To Jose, she said, “You’re out of the game for ten minutes. I’ve warned you about the rules.”
Jose whirled on her. “Wasn’t my fault.”
“Out,” she yelled, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.
“You okay, Cy?” Hot Shot helped his little friend to his feet.
“I’m good,” Cyrus said. But both knees were skinned raw.
Jose stomped off the court, muttering. Some of her kids were stubborn as hell, but they’d learn fair play if it killed her.
The buzzer sounded ending the half.
“Take ten,” she told the team. When the kids moved to the sidelines, she glanced to the other court where O’Malley’s team still practiced. Wearing a white T-shirt with the bright yellow sunburst logo of Sunshine Center, he ran up and down the court with the kids, officiating the game. He also wore navy blue shorts, and his muscled legs were in full view.
Hardly clerical garb.
But how could she fault him for wearing shorts when that was also her standard coaching uniform?
“Make sure you hydrate,” she shouted at her team as she moved toward O’Malley. She wanted to watch his coaching style, see how he interacted with his players. From what she’d observed so far, he was too hard on them. She’d already mentioned it to him once.
“And don’t forget to stretch,” she yelled.
Father Sean O’Malley had been at St. Theresa’s for two weeks, and his presence had turned her previously calm life upside down. He’d cleared out broken equipment, stacks of paper and other debris from her office and had moved in a small desk from the storeroom for himself. She was glad to be rid of the garbage—her office was much neater now—but she was hyperaware of his presence. Her attention constantly drifted to him—to his unpriestly body if she were honest—so how could she concentrate?
Thankfully, he didn’t sit at his desk often. He apparently hated paperwork, since he’d tried to persuade her to complete his.
But he did find her every morning at breakfast in the cafeteria. She didn’t have to eat there. She could eat at home or grab a fast-food egg sandwich on the way to work, but couldn’t afford to give up that free perk. The cost would quickly add up and destroy her bare-bones budget.
So instead O’Malley destroyed her serenity.
“Come on, Mario,” Sean yelled on the court. “Hustle, man, hustle. You got a load in your pants?”
Aleta groaned. Just as she feared. He was crude and harsh with his team. But she had to admit they responded to his instructions.
Sean blew his whistle and stopped practice to coach Hot Shot on some trick with his wrist on free throws. Hot Shot listened intently and tried the motion, sinking a shot on the first try. The team whooped. Sean looked her way and winked.
He made her feel like a fly to his spider. Not that she would mind being caught up in his sexy, silken web. She closed her eyes. You’ll never reach the Pearly Gates, girl. What if he is a priest?
Her internet search hadn’t turned up any current information on this particular Sean O’Malley, which she found strange. No Facebook page, no Twitter account. She hadn’t done a deep dive, but there should have been at least something recent online.
“Now each of you try it a couple of times,” Sean instructed, and moved off the court to stand beside her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Checking up on me?” he asked.
“You’re too strict with them.”
He mopped his face with a terry-cloth towel. “These kids respond to structure and discipline. All kids do.”
“Maybe,” she murmured.
“No maybe about it.”
“But if you’re too mean, you’ll drive them away.”
“They haven’t left, have they?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“They’ll be ready for a game soon.”
Before she could respond, Aleta spotted Father Mac entering the gym. What was he doing here? Because of his busy schedule, he seldom had time to visit. Likely he was checking up on O’Malley. She hid a smile.
The two priests had had quite the argument over the installation of surveillance cameras on church property. Pom told her she’d overheard O’Malley threaten to leave if Father Mac didn’t agree.
“Hello, my children,” Father Mac said when he approached.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Aleta said.
“Father.” O’Malley nodded.
“How is practice coming?” Father Mac asked, his gaze on Sean’s players behind the foul line trying out the new technique.
“Father O’Malley and I were just discussing how the teams are almost ready for competition,” Aleta said.
“Excellent. Healthy contests keep children motivated.” Father Mac turned his focus on Sean. “Don’t you agree, Father O’Malley?”
Sean shrugged. “Unless they get too caught up in sides and who should win and start fighting outside of the game. Then it turns into a brawl.”
Father Mac shook his head and said, “Your surveillance cameras have been installed.”
“Not all of them.”
“The ones we agreed on are in place.”
O’Malley folded his arms. “If you want to catch your thief, St. Theresa’s needs better security.”
“That’s why I brought you here, Father O’Malley.”
“I can’t do it alone. This is the twenty-first century, Father. The church needs to update its methods.”
“At what price?”
“I guess that’s what you need to decide.”
Father Mac closed his eyes. Aleta suspected he was offering a silent prayer for patience. She knew how he felt.
After a deep sigh, Father Mac turned his gaze on Aleta.
She straightened, not liking his worried expression. So this unexpected visit was about something other than intrusive surveillance cameras.
“May I see you in my office, my child?”
“Of course, Father,” she said.
Father Mac tossed O’Malley a look. “I’m certain you can manage nicely here, Sean.”
“Yes, Father,” Sean said with a slight bow.
Aleta followed Father Mac out of the gym. He walked with his hands clasped in front, head down, shoulders stooped. She knew that posture meant he was deep in thought, and she didn’t interrupt his meditation on the short trip to his office.
When they arrived, she whooped in delighted surprise at the sight of Myra Stevens, the woman she credited with saving her life. Myra jumped to her feet and enfolded Aleta in an embrace. As they hugged, Aleta squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar scent of Myra’s perfume, a soft fragrance that always reminded Aleta of her mother. The woman she blamed for destroying her life.
Two hardworking women the same age and yet completely different people.
Aleta swiped at unexpected tears when Myra released her.
Myra cocked her head and examined Aleta with a smile. “You look fabulous. This work obviously agrees with you.”
“It does,” Aleta said. “But why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Myra had believed in her when no one else on this earth did, when her own parents had disowned her. A social worker for the State of Florida, Myra now worked in Broward County, so they seldom had a chance to meet. “Can we have lunch and catch up?”
Myra and Father Mac exchanged a look.
“Something has happened, Aleta,” Myra said. “Something you need to know about.”
“What’s going on?” Aleta asked. Unease skittered through her. She studied Father Mac’s face, but he gave away nothing.
“I wish I could stay,” the priest said. “But I have a meeting with Bishop Murphy in Miami that I dare not miss.”
“Don’t tell me,” Aleta said. “The bishop heard about St. Theresa’s new surveillance cameras?”
“Yes, and he’s not happy.”
Myra frowned. “Surveillance cameras?”
“I’ll let Aleta explain,” Father Mac said. “I’m already late.”
When the priest exited, Aleta turned to Myra. “What’s happened?”
Myra took a huge breath and released it slowly. Normally fearless, her mentor appeared seriously rattled, so she had something difficult to relate. Aleta lifted her chin.
Once upon a time, Myra’s confidence in her had convinced Aleta she could handle anything.
“Sit down, Aleta.”
She did, and Myra took a seat in the opposite chair.
“You’re scaring me.”
“Bubba has escaped from Raiford,” Myra said.
“What?” The shrill word exploded into the room.
“I’m sorry.”
“How?”
Myra’s mouth tightened. “By killing four more people.”
“But how?” Aleta blinked. Nausea churned in her stomach. Bubba was loose? Dear God, please no.
“I thought he was in maximum security.”
Myra leaned forward and took both of Aleta’s hands in hers. “He’s usually in solitary confinement, but they can’t keep him there all the time.”
Aleta swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “How long has he been out?”
“Since this morning.”
“Oh, my God.”
“The manhunt is all over the news, but I wanted to warn you in person. He escaped in a refrigerated truck, so I’m certain they’ll locate him any time now.”
Aleta stared at Myra. “He’ll come for me.”
“No. They’ll find him before he makes his way south. He has no access to cash.”
“He’ll steal anything he needs.” Aleta jumped to her feet and crossed her arms across her middle. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Myra nodded. “I know he’s a sociopath.”
“A sociopath who blames me for putting him in prison.”
“That was eight years ago.”
“He swore he would kill me.”
Turning away from Myra, Aleta stared at the wall, not seeing anything. She’d always known this time would come. Judgment day. With Myra’s help, she’d gotten clean, gone back to school, and even found the courage to testify against the devil she’d once considered her one true love. But she couldn’t remember much about that horrible year when she’d been out of control. She hadn’t killed anyone, but she’d helped Bubba steal more than one car.
And she’d been with him the night Bubba the Beast had killed two young men.
“He’ll find me.” She closed her eyes. “I’ll finally get what I deserve.”
“Stop it,” Myra snapped. “You’ve made up for anything you did while under his influence.”
“Maybe not enough.”
“Look at me.”
Aleta turned around and gazed with affection at the woman who’d done so much for her. Myra’s hair had been a deep chestnut brown when they’d met, and now it was tinged with gray. How many of those gray hairs are because of me?
Myra placed her hands on Aleta’s upper arms and squeezed. “You are doing good work here at St. Theresa’s.”
“I’m trying.”
“What did we say during your rehab? What was your mantra?”
Aleta attempted a smile. “That everyone deserves a second chance.”
Myra nodded. “That’s right.”
“What about Bubba?” Aleta whispered. “Is he entitled to another chance?”
Myra dropped her arms. “That murderer has run out of grace. I predict this is the end of the road for Mr. Bubba Burnett.”
“Death by cop.”
“Probably.”
Aleta nodded and stared at the floor. Maybe it’s the end of the line for me, too.
“What can I do?” Aleta shrugged and met Myra’s stare. “Pray that the cops catch Bubba the Beast before he finds me.”
“Praying never hurts, but you should take precautions.”
“What? Buy a gun?”
“That would be a wonderful idea, but I know how you feel about guns.”
“I couldn’t pull the trigger,” Aleta said.
“Even if Bubba the Beast wanted to strangle the life out of you?” Myra demanded. “Yes, you could.”
Aleta shivered at the image of Bubba as she’d last seen him, sitting next to his public defender in the courtroom. He’d bulked up even more in jail and shaved his head. He’d stared at her with so much hate, the force of his gaze had felt like a physical assault. When the prosecutor asked her to point him out in the courtroom, he’d raised his shackled hands and slid a finger across his throat and pointed back at her.
“You’re stronger than you believe, Aleta,” Myra said, jerking her back to the present. “Look how far you’ve come.”
“Thanks,” Aleta said. But Myra had no idea how physically strong Bubba was. A bullet wouldn’t stop him.
The only weapons he couldn’t take away were her brain and the education she’d worked so hard to earn. Could she talk Bubba out of killing her? Doubtful. The Bubba she’d known during her dark days had seldom listened to reason. His recent prison break didn’t indicate he’d gained any common sense.
“So what about pepper spray or a stun gun of some kind?” Myra suggested.
“I’ve carried pepper spray since the day Bubba threatened to kill me.”
“Thanks goodness.”
Aleta nodded. Fearing that someday Bubba would come for her, she’d thought all of this through years ago. If he ever got that close to her, she planned to blind him, slow him down long enough for her to make an escape.
Myra took a deep breath. “Father Mac wants you to move into the women’s shelter temporarily. He’s worried about you, and has an empty bed right now.”
“He wants me to hide?”
“Until Bubba is caught.”
“No.” Aleta shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? It would be safer. No dark walk from your car to your apartment.”
“I’d put other women in danger if he found me. Women who have already been abused by violent men.”
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
“It wouldn’t be the first. But I refuse to let Bubba destroy my life again.” Aleta smiled at Myra. “You gave my life back to me, and I’m going to live it.”
“Aleta, please.”
“He knew me by my gang name. Delilah. Maybe he won’t find me.”
“You had to give your full name when you testified.”
She’d blocked that out.
“At least promise me you’ll be careful. You need to remain aware of your surroundings at all times. Don’t go out alone at night.”
“I promise,” Aleta said. “But nothing I do will matter if he finds me.”