The Killer’s Sister
Growing up on the fourth side of murder, the one we’re overlooking.
In the second half of the 90s, my uncle bought a pub. My aunt painted the walls with spray cans. Jazz in the night: Manhattan skyline and a sax player. When my mom worked afternoon hours, I loved to stay at the pub, but none of the adults involved felt like it was a good place for a child. Not after 5 p.m., when…
