He was standing at the other end of the store. I had no doubt it was him. His guilt was as plain as the overpriced scarves my wife was browsing through in the clearance section of this blasted designer store. My pulse began to race at the flood of painful memories his face brought back to me. His gaze returned to me a second time and I broke away from it.
I nodded absently at my wife’s selection of a three-hundred dollar Alexander McQueen original. She pursed her lips with a show of disappointment at the meager attention I was giving her. How could I tell her what I was feeling in those moments?
I was almost nine years old the night it happened. It was supposed to be just another quiet Monday night in the middle of winter. I was in my room when I heard a commo... Please subscribe to keep reading.
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