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“Everything, baby. Everything is wrong with me.” The look he gives me freezes all my rage. There’s something so dead about his eyes right now, something so unbearably bleak. Whatever he isn’t telling me about himself—which is pretty much everything—it’s bad. “What does that mean?” Silence. “What are you hiding? What’s your big secret, A.J.? Why won’t you let me all the way in? Don’t you trust me?” “I trust you. It’s myself I don’t trust.” A nonanswer if there ever was one. Now I’m angry again. “Are you a serial killer?” “No.” “An undercover FBI agent?” “No.” “A drug dealer? A cartel leader? The head of an international prostitution ring?” He winces. “No.” “What, then? Why do you hide from cameras, A.J.? Why do you live up here alone like this? Why would you bring me here and ma
- Writer
