they didn’t just let it happen… they planned it…

statue, never shedding a single tear. For twenty-six long years, I carried a crinkled, faded Polaroid in my wallet: Gavin Thompson, smiling warmly in a worn denim jacket. He was dead. He was gone. He was a tragedy I had made peace with.

“What did you just say?” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

Detective Richards held up continue reading …