I went back and got my GED, then I went to college at night. I studied business. I didn’t finish. The degree had never been my goal. I wanted to know how business worked and how to get ahead, and once I had it figured out, I quit school and was in the game. I saved every damn dime that came my way and started buying properties in low-income neighborhoods that were on the brink of being gentrified and then I began flipping them.

The 2008 recession had destroyed my city, but it gave me my first out with a slew of foreclosed properties ripe for the picking. I knew the streets, the neighborhoods, and the zoning ordinances. I knew exactly how to leave one wall standing to be able to call it a historic preservation project and then build a cheesy McMansion around it. I scooped up all the tax breaks and then charged a fucking fortune for a place that wasn’t worth the aesthetically pleasing yet cheap materials we loaded into it, except for location, location, location.

With the onslaught of rich Californians pouring into Arizona for the cheaper cost of living, there was money to be made in the housing industry, and I was determined to be one of the ones to make it. Soon, I was flipping entire neighborhoods, and my builders and I could hardly keep up with the demand. I made a fortune and was at the top of my game and then BOOM.

My body essentially gave me the big middle finger and crapped out on me. I hadn’t been able to get my old self back since. When I looked in the mirror now, I didn’t recognize the man with the shadowed eyes, who didn’t sleep, who woke up drenched in sweat with his leg going numb, who never left his house, who was, for the first time in his life since childhood, not in control.

I thought about Jackson’s suggestion that I see a therapist. My entire body went rigid. Nope, nope, nope. They’ll want to talk about your entire life, not just your post-trauma stroke issues. Do you really want to wade around in that cesspool? Oh, hell no.

Looking for a distraction from these disturbing thoughts, I settled into my recliner by the fire, sipping the thimbleful of whiskey that I allowed myself on bad days while reading the latest Gray Man thriller from Mark Greaney.

I had just gotten my chair into the perfect recline when I heard a very soft splash. It was coming from the pool area. I waited. I heard another very soft sound. Someone was in the pool. I knew it wasn’t Lupita or Juan. They’d already retired for the night. And Jackson was still out and wouldn’t return for at least another hour.