DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

For most of my life, I was held together by two things: dance and my mother. Until the night she was murdered.

The police called it a suicide. I called it bullshit.

Weeks passed. Grief drowned me. Rage kept me afloat. Then came the letter-from her. Inside was a check for ten grand, a photo of a man I'd never seen, and an address that screamed danger. Scrawled across the page in her handwriting: "FIND HIM."
I will.

And I won't stop until he pays for what he did-even if it means becoming someone I no longer recognize.

Let justice bleed.