“I can’t tell if I’m dreaming now or what,” he said after relaying his conversation with Johnston. I’d had two hours of sleep and the taste of cocaine still lingered in the back of my throat, so it took a moment to focus. “Wait…did you say homicide detective?” I asked, bolting out of bed. “Griffin, get over here now. I need you.” I was twenty-seven years old but never felt more like a lost little boy.
