As I alluded to earlier, I had few friends, and none of them were “best” friends—a few were “good” friends perhaps, but I"d never bared my soul, my dreams, and my emotions to them. That honor had always been reserved for my dad. When my mom died, the two of us only had each other; if we were to survive, we needed to do it together, and that"s exactly what we"d done. We were best friends when I was growing up, even through high-school, when boys tended to rebel.
The only other person who knew a lot about my life was Justine. It wasn"t intentional—it just worked out that way. Justine was the kind of person everybody felt comfortable with, someone they could entrust their secrets to and know that they wouldn"t go any further than that. But at some point she had betrayed me, and although Bill
