But now, I want you to know about me. I didn’t work at the factory. I did for a time. But I earned my money doing other work. Work that helped people. Those who were looked over by the court system. Those who deserved protection, justice, and someone to be in their corner. There should be enough money stashed here to help you if you need it. And if you wish to continue the work that I began, you’ll find out everything you need to know on the computer. It’s not easy, Jack. But you and I are cut from the same cloth. Gafino would have said we are killers. But that’s not true. Killing is easy. Anyone can do that. What determines who we are, are our choices. You have a choice, Jack. I know you are haunted by what you have done. The bloodshed. The lives you have taken. And maybe you wish you could reverse time. I wish I could. But what you can do is determine how you finish. How? By helping others. Those who are tread upon by unscrupulous individuals.
But you must know this. It’s not an easy path to take. You can’t surround yourself with those who might be harmed. I think you already know that. Maybe you won’t have someone there beside you at the end of the day. But when you rest your head on that pillow, you will know that you have done what others wouldn’t do. You will have helped those who couldn’t help themselves.
I can’t make that choice for you. And I would understand if you chose to walk away from everything and lead a quiet life.
But I think you’ll know what to do when you are ready.
You will find the set of keys belongs to a truck that I bought a year ago. Ownership is in your name. It’s not much, and I never learned to drive but it’s for you. You’ll find it on the premises. I’ve paid to have it stored in one of the larger units. Use the second key to get in.
For now, all I can say is what I should have said, years ago.
I love you, son.
Eddie
Jack closed the letter and stared absently out the window. It would have been lying to say that he hadn’t wrestled with the thought of giving up helping others. Was it really his responsibility? Was it Dalton’s? Hadn’t he done enough? Did it even matter? Every day he awoke to bad news playing on the Internet, TV and radio. News stories were filled with injustices. He hadn’t turned a blind eye because he couldn’t but if he was to have a life with Dana that couldn’t be part of his future. Not anymore. A light breeze blew apart the drapes. The hum of traffic far below seeped in as the world came alive.
Chapter 2
San Francisco
“I don’t care how you do it, who you lie to, or whose mother you piss off in the process. I want something new, fresh, and exciting, people!” Roger Johnson, the editor in chief of the San Francisco Chronicle, bellowed at the top of his voice as he paced in front of the entire staff. “This newspaper’s circulation has dropped by more than 28 percent over the last year and it only gets worse by the month. At this rate we’ll all be out of a job and living off food stamps if we don’t turn this around.”
Kelly Armstrong was all thumbs as she tapped out the minutes for the meeting. It was one of several jobs handed to her, along with doing runs for coffee and all manner of shit that was usually assigned to intern reporters. Most would have complained and kicked up a fuss but she knew it was all part of the learning curve. At twenty-two years of age she didn’t expect much less. Her father told her that if she wanted to make a name for herself she had to be prepared to start at the bottom. Promotions weren’t handed out, and no one was entitled to them. She’d have to work her way to the top. That meant being a team player, tackling crappy tasks, showing up early, leaving late, and outworking every other person in the company.
“It’s the Internet,” Zach Larsen mumbled.
“Who said that?” Roger spun on his heels eyeing worried faces.
Zach was perched on the corner of a desk near Kelly, pulling a piece of gum from his mouth and then sucking it back in. Everything about his demeanor was nonchalant. He embodied every trait that annoyed Kelly. He didn’t take his job seriously, he did the least amount of work, and he was full of excuses and spent most of his time flitting from desk to desk cracking jokes or flirting. How his antics had managed to fly under Johnson’s radar for so long was an utter mystery. He reminded her of an overgrown weed, with coffee-stained teeth, a ’70s porn stache that looped over his lip like a horseshoe, tight curly hair that resembled a cheap wig more than the real thing, and he wore this overpowering cologne that made her want to gag every time he was around. But that wasn’t all. Oh no, he was a fashion disaster with bargain bin clothes that smelled of mothballs and he had a tendency to put his foot in his mouth every chance he got. And when anyone called him out over it, he would pass the buck to someone else.
“He did,” Zach said pointing to Erik Jenkins, the assistant city editor, a quiet man who was known
