Page 9 of Deadly Sins

5

Mia

I’D BEEN BACK IN SAN Francisco for two weeks. I attempted to honor Joaquín’s wish and stay in school, but I couldn’t focus. Even attending guided meditations and kirtan chanting hadn’t helped. My mind raced in class. I hadn’t slept well since I’d returned.

I glanced around my room in the tiny North Beach apartment I shared with two other San Francisco State students. Scripts lay across my desk, with stacks of books huddled against the wall. Just a little over a month ago, my life had been so simple, so easy. One focus, one goal. To be the best actress possible. How stupid and trivial my dreams seemed now.

I swiped through my iPhone to the San Diego News app, scanning for headlines about Joaquín. I didn’t even have to scroll down the page. There it was at the top. Bail denied for U.S. Navy SEAL accused of murdering a stripper.

Fuck.

My ears pounded, and my vision blurred. I couldn’t even read the article. No hope. This was it—the realization finally sank in that he might get convicted of this crime.

I called Joaquín’s lawyer, but the secretary told me that my brother had given instructions not to talk to me anymore. The secretary had only one thing to say: Joaquín had transferred the title of his truck to me.

I knew Joaquín too well—this was his way of ensuring I went on with my life. But what he didn’t realize was that I would never be able to enjoy my life unless I fought for his.

I needed to clear my head, meditate, try to find some peace. Find a way to connect to Joaquín.

Despite being desperate for sleep, I climbed into his truck—my truck now—and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mt. Tamalpais. It was a clear day; San Francisco’s famous fog seemed to have cleared the way for this mission. The winding hills through Mill Valley reminded me of the weekend adventures Joaquín and I had gone on with our parents.

Mt. Tam was more than a mountain to me—it was a sacred place, a vortex of energy. Grant and Joaquín never missed an opportunity to tease me about my spiritual beliefs. I was raised Catholic, but after my parents died, I’d become deeply spiritual. I practiced yoga, became a vegan, attended kirtan chants, and meditated. My dedication only grew stronger after I’d left Grant. For me, my spirituality was a way to center myself, develop a personal relationship with God, and feel closer to my parents.

As the Raptor approached our favorite trailhead, my breathing slowed, and a memory took hold of me.

“Let’s do a time capsule!”

Joaquín, a skinny boy around age twelve with a devilish grin, led me down the trail. Our parents slowly lagged in the distance. Always the Boy Scout, Joaquín took a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and notched a hole at the base of a tree.

“Give me your bracelets.”

I shoved the candy-colored beaded bracelets off my wrist and handed them to him without a second thought. A big deal, considering at age eleven, those tacky things were my prized possessions.

Joaquín’s eyes twinkled. He loved going on adventures, and I was always his right-hand girl. Most brothers and sisters fight, but we were truly best friends.

He took a small leather pouch out of his back pocket. “This was made by the Miwok Indians.” He slipped his Swiss Army Knife inside, wrapped in my bracelets, reached deep between the roots of the tree, and dropped the pouch inside.

“One day, when we’re older, we’ll come back here and find our treasures.”

I thought it was stupid, but I would never tell him that. I just hugged him, and we ran off toward the voices of our parents.

Centering myself back in the present day, I parked the truck. I walked over to the earth and touched the damp soil. I closed my eyes, and I could hear my parents’ voices calling us. “Mia, Joaquín. Where are you two?”

The voices became quieter in my head, and I found the tree. Eleven years later, the old oak had seen better days, but it still stood, leaves gathered at the base.

I knelt beside the trunk, my hand wrestling with the soil, which was surprisingly loose like it had been disturbed not long ago. Digging faster, furious. It has to be here.

I’d all about given up when my fingers touched something smooth. I reached down and grabbed…the pouch!

I tore it open, now weathered by dirt and rain. My bracelets flew out—but instead of Joaquín’s knife, I found a small wooden box.

He’s been back here?

The box was new. When had he come up here? He hadn’t visited me in at least a year.

I flipped the box open, and inside was a small key and a dog tag. I pulled the dog tag out and squinted at the etched numbers. WF #1459.

WF—Wells Fargo?