Page 8 of Sinful Secrets

“I’m a Marino. I have to be okay. I’ll call if I find anything.”

As he ends the call, I turn around and walk back to my car. No one is around. It’s like they all disappeared.

There’s no point in sticking around here, so I head toward the Savannah College of Art and Design museum. It’s been my sanctuary lately. The place that calms and re-centers me. No one knows I come here.

Except for Alvin, the security guard. He is also one of the security guards that work at the arena on game nights and special events.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Alvin says as soon as he sees me.

“I’m more of a wolf than a cat.” I tease.

“What’s going on? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here as much as you’ve been here this week and never this late in the day.”

I glance around at the large room, making sure no one can overhear. “We’ve been having trouble at some of the spots.”

“I’ve heard about some of it. It’s been the talk through the police channels for the past four days or so.”

Alvin is a retired police officer who has been on Arturo’s payroll since before I met either of them.

“Do you know anything about it or the gang responsible?”

“I haven’t heard shit. It’s been quiet. Too quiet.”

Shit. That’s bad news. If Alvin doesn’t know, then they are covering their tracks.

“How’s Avery?”

“Ah, same as always. Stubborn and independent.”

I met his daughter last year after she became an ice girl for the Savannah Sharks. She’s normally shy and quiet until she hits the ice. Then she becomes a force to be reckoned with.

The ice is her domain, and she lets everyone know.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. She’s about to graduate and start her life, so it’s good that she can be independent and take care of herself.”

His phone rings. With a quick glance at the screen, he chuckles. “Speaking of Avery.”

I give him a quick wave and head deeper inside the museum as he answers his phone. My body walks on autopilot to the back wall, where my favorite painting is.

No one ever comes back here. Hell, most of the time, the museum is pretty empty.

But this time, I’m not alone.

A petite red-headed woman is sitting on the bench where I usually sit that faces the painting I stare at. I’ve seen her here a time or two before. She usually walks around the sculptures, talking to people.

My gaze wanders over her. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her cheeks are a faint pink blush, like she’s been crying. Her ankle is wrapped up.

Did she hurt herself and that’s why she’s crying? Did someone die? Did she lose a job?

“Oh!” she exclaims when she notices me.

I immediately apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” She wipes her tears away. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

I point to the other half of the bench. “Do you mind if I sit? I enjoy sitting here and thinking when I feel the need to decompress.”

Why am I telling her this? She doesn’t need to be burdened with my shit, nor does she need to know anything about me.

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