The door opens.
I almost expire in relief when I see that it’s Mom behind the door.
“Thank God,” I say, smiling as I walk in. “I saw a car in the driveway and I thought….”
The rest of my words float into the wind when I see that she’s not alone in the house.
Sitting on the couch is an older man with a full head of gray hair, a beard, and full tattoos peeking out from the neckline of his shirt. He’s wearing a suit, but his jacket is leather. He smells like wood and cigarettes and something foul—like death.
He smiles at me, getting up from the couch. Two other men are with him. Big muscular guys with identical handlebar mustaches.
I stand there, frozen with sudden fear.
These are the kind of men David hangs out with.
Gangs.
Criminals.
“Hello,” the man with the tattoos greets me in
