When I was sixteen, my parents were murdered.

The police told me they caught the man who did it.

Boy, were they wrong.

Age seventeen.

I moved across the Atlantic to London.

I tried art school, but it wasn't my thing.

Age eighteen.

I had a steady job.

I waited tables in a popular restaurant.

That didn't work out.

Age nineteen.

I worked in a book store.

There was this man who was always looking at me.

He came there a lot with his coffee and laptop.

He didn't say much.

Something about him didn't seem right.

I was right.