My dad comes walking briskly toward me, clad in his typical suit and tie. Hands in the air, I ask, “What the hell happened?” “Zeke Martin committed suicide. He jumped from a second-story window with a shard of glass in his throat.” “Fuck!” I run my fingers through my hair before lifting my eyes to my dad’s. “Zeke’s dead?” I quirk a brow, not buying this suicide story. “Glass doesn’t just end up in someone’s throat. What really happened, Dad?”
