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.
