You had ran away from home at the age of 13. You traveled with the little money you had all the way to a different state. You had picked up a job as a waiter in a small diner in the middle of no where, living with a friend. Now you’re 17 and almost an adult.

One late night during a shift you took a man’s order, tattoos climbed up his veiny arms, his black hair slightly messy, his deep brown eyes looking stoic, chilling. If looks could kill.

You walk back over to your colleague who tends the bar, and she mentions he’s a private investigator. That’s when you realized your family must’ve paid him to track you down. But now you’re left to wonder why, after all these years.