CHAPTER ONE

          It’s funny; the things parents leave behind for their children to inherit when they die.  Some leave money, some leave debt.  Some leave houses, and some leave a beloved pet.  Personal items that have no real value other than the sentimental kind that we find in them.  All sorts of things, treasures and junk, left for the surviving generation to do with as they will. 

          I was twenty-seven when my father finally died.  I say finally because daddy and I never had what one would call the best of relationships.  He liked to use me and my mother as punching bags when I was growing up and I had loved to imagine the day when the bastard would be out of our lives for good.  It wasn’t very copacetic, but it’s all I ever really knew. 

          I had delighted in the look on his face when my mother had finally worked up the nerve to leave his sorry ass.  Nothing better than telling someone you’re through with the help of the local police department, right?  Nope.  Still makes me grin just thinking about it. 

          The rest of my teenage years passed by peacefully after the divorce.  Finished high school and went to work so I could help mom out with the bills and what not.  College?  Nah didn’t fit in with what needed to be done.  I still wanted to go, sure, but it just wasn’t as easy as all that. 

          Years came and went and the next thing you know here I am twenty-seven and still doing the same old same old.  Working to pay the bills, keep a leaky roof over my head, and keep myself in the ramen noodles and mac and cheese. Yeah, life’s just that glamorous. 

          Lousy fucking economy.

          So there I am, trying to relax and enjoy a hot bath in my “needs a little work” bathroom in my shabby but affordable two bedroom apartment when my phone rings.  Muttering a few choice curses under my breath, I climb out of the tub and head into the living room to grab my cell.  I figure it’s my boss calling me in to cover another shift and, as much as I hate it, I need the money so I try to pull as many they’ll let me down at the hardware store.  But no, it’s not work calling me in for eight more hours of fun-filled cashiering.  It’s my mom.