A few months after the funeral, Rafe turned up at my London office, unannounced. He was drunk and bleary-eyed, fresh off a jet from Vegas. “I miss us,” he’d slurred, leaning against my desk to stop himself from swaying. “I miss the game.” Sinners Anonymous was all his idea. A bigger, shinier version of the game that forced us to become men. He’d hatched a whole plan as he flew thousands of feet above the Atlantic, fueled by liquor and nostalgia. An “anonymous” voicemail service instead of a church confession booth. A reach that touched all four corners of the globe—not just the cobbled streets
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