บท 107: Five Years Later

I sat on the edge of our bed, my thoughts racing like they never had before. Frankie had always been vague about his work since we moved to Louisiana, claiming he was in waste management, but who realistically makes more than $100,000 a year in garbage? More than once his clothes had blood stains on them as well but on the outside meaning it wasn't his blood. And where were the paychecks from the company? I'd never seen one. The cash flow, the way he seemed to know everyone in our neighborhood and they seemed to fear him, the people he'd bring by the house—it all started to paint a picture I didn't want to acknowledge. The only explanation that made sense was that Frankie was involved in something darker, something like the mob.