When I witness my client committing a cut-and-dried murder, my head tells me to walk away. My heart tells me I can’t.
Eight years ago, my father lost his life being a private detective. He was all I had. My mother died when I was a child, and the smattering of aunts and uncles I apparently possessed were scattered across America. They dragged themselves to his funeral in order to keep up appearances, but then scuttled back from whence they came like they’d never been there in the first place.
For a short while, the devastating loss broke me in two. Then somehow the debilitating clouds of grief began to fade, and I saw a vision of myself standing at a crossroads in my life. The left fork led to a bottomless pit of never-ending desolation and regret… the right fork led to the one thing I had to do if I was to hold my head up and live with myself.
My father’s one-man business became a one-woman operation. Knowing he’d want me to carry on the good work, it was the spur I needed to make sure his death was not in vain.
I set myself a few rules, the golden one resplendent in big bold letters… to keep well away from anyone with a machine gun.
That way I had a better chance of staying alive.
For eight years I lived by that rule, refusing to be drawn into anything mob-related. Then the day arrived that changed everything.
November 6th, 1926. The never-to-be forgotten date indelibly etched into my brain. The day a mysterious woman walked through my door, and turned my life upside down.
The day that, without me realizing it, was the start of my dive into murky and dangerous waters.