Leaving that dark guest room after witnessing what my wife had done to my mother’s body, I had to go into the dining room and kiss the woman who had done it. I smiled, ate her food, and accepted her plans, silently counting down the hours until her destruction.
Part 1 The heavy canvas of my duffel bag slipped off my shoulder, hitting the oak floor of the foyer in our suburban Atlanta home with a dull thud. Fourteen months in the Horn of Africa as an army forensic auditor teaches you to read microfractures in a silent room, and the silence in my…
