It’s been eight years since my family disintegrated. First my father, an NYPD cop was shot. Slaughtered one night in an abandoned warehouse. Then eight months later my mom died of cancer. Or sadness.
The person or people behind my father’s murder have never even been traced. He was a cop so they concluded it must have been someone my father had crossed. Put behind bars.
And then eight years later, I found a key and a little leather book. The last thing written in it was Ga, 9 pm, 4110 1st Ave. Maybe it means something. Maybe it means nothing.