Chapter 27

“They died in a bad car wreck on Interstate 70, outside the city. It was around Christmas and during one of our wicked city storms. Miller was seven at the time. He flew out the back window and survived, landing in a mound of thick snow that acted like a bed of feathers. It was probably the most luck the guy has ever had in his life. Following the accident, his world quickly fell apart.”

I heard everything I needed to hear from Bobby Carlton about Miller. Not that I knew what to do with any of the information he kindly provided. Confusion fell on my lap and stayed there like a cat taking a nap. “What do I do, Bobby?” I asked, concerned for my safety, knowing Miller could have been dangerous to me, and maybe to himself, on many different levels.