I had always known my father was murdered. Years ago, when they found his body torn to shreds, it was almost unbelievable that someone could get close enough to touch him.
To me, my father was untouchable.
Whenever I looked at my dad, he seemed like an unrivaled powerhouse. He had a way of calming tensions just by walking in the door.
His presence commanded respect from everyone around him - it felt as if my father was a regal figure.
My mother had held the secrets of my father's death close to her chest for far too long. No matter how much I begged and pleaded, she refused to fill in the blanks.
But now she and I sat among a sea of broken glass and shattered memories as she slowly unraveled the dark truth that had been kept hidden from me for years.
Every whispered word felt like
