Bikers Were Painting My Dead Mother’s House Pink At 4AM And I Didn’t Know Any Of Them

you doing?” I said.

The big guy climbed down from his ladder. Wiped his hands on his jeans. Looked at me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen on a man that size.

“You must be Claire,” he said.

“How do you know my name?”

“Your mama talked about you every single day.”

“Who are you? Why are you painting her house? Why is it pink?”

He reached into his vest pocket continue reading …