The photograph refused to leave my head. Even after we left the abandoned church and after the evidence got loaded into trucks.
Even after everybody returned to the clubhouse, I kept seeing it. A little girl smiling for a camera while Razor was standing in the background watching.
The memory should not have existed and at least that was what I kept telling myself. But the longer I stared at the photo, the more things started coming back.
They were small things, broken things and fragments.
Voices from expensive parties and men smoking cigars on balconies. Security guards standing near doors and adults speaking in careful whispers.
And every not and then, a younger version of Razor.
Not important enough for me to remember or enough to stand out. He was just there. Always somewher
