That drop-off, I now realize, was to Justin’s father. And you know what, I still can’t remember his face—but there’s a reason I can’t.
The faces of the people I’ve dealt to all morph into one because I don’t want to know what color their eyes are or what they do for a living. I don’t want to know because that would make them a person. That would make them someone with a family, which would make them a mom, a dad, a wife, a husband, a brother, a sister, and someone’s kid.
It made it easier not to feel guilty when they were just nameless, faceless clients. It made it easier to accept that I was ruining their lives.
“I saw you deal to my dad,” Justin whispers, lost in thought. “I always wondered who he got his gear off. I just never imagined the girl I loved was responsible for ruining my
