I was seventeen when I found out about my father.
Some days, I found myself staring into space with the same question playing on a loop. Was I better off not knowing?
I always did come up with the same conclusion. I shouldn't have gone down that f*cking attic.
We'd left for LA soon after Matthew Gurney's death. His disappearance didn't leave our small town in a stir, quite the opposite. He was a nobody, his death swept under the rug for more matters the authorities deemed important, like scraping rich brats out of prison and vying to be on the payroll of a rich and morally bankrupt tycoon.
Justice should have been served.
I should have been caught.
In my own way, I'd attoned for it. I'd quit the drugs, gone to rehab, and suffered through the withdrawals. I hadn't looked at a bottle t
