The past is never dead.
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK | TEN YEARS AGOHe still remembered the day clearly. Even now, echoes of it haunted him in the darkest corners of his mind. He and his parents had never exactly seen eye-to-eye, but the same could be said of any teenager. Especially a spoiled one. Throughout his entire life, he had wanted for nothing. Every holiday was an extravagant event, marked by dozens upon dozens of gifts. Entertainment centers, the newest video game consoles, Gucci and Armani (he had never entirely understood why someone would pay fifty dollars for a t-shirt). To say he had been a child of wealth would be an understatement.
He never knew what, exactly, his parents had done for a living. What had he cared, so long as the money kept rolling in? His father was some sort of banker, or maybe an investor. His mother, unlike his father (as was often pointed out in arguments), hadn't worked for her living - her family was old money, generation upon generation adding to the assets. She was always out shopping, though she always came back in the early hours of the morning and never having bought anything. He had never questioned it.
Like any normal adolescent, he had rebelled. All the money his parents shoved at him meant nothing when compared to his "friends." The prep school he had been attending at the time was filled with a plethora of suit-and-tie brown nosers, all more concerned with legacy and prestige than with actually doing something meaningful with their time. Except for a few select elite, that was. This secret society of sorts had seen something in Jefferson that they decided was worth utilizing.
A few hazing and initiation rituals later, mixed with the occasional illegal substance, and he had been hooked. Their code was silence, their craft - disobedience. It had started innocently enough; graffiti on the school statue, egging the principal's car. After a few months, it escalated to the point of shoplifting and forgery. When his friends figured out he had a natural knack for making money, they abused it.
Of course he had been caught. More than once, actually. Every single time though, mommy and daddy would bail him out. He would be grounded for a week only to go back out and do it again. That was where he'd been when it happened.
The target was an expensive ring at the local jewelry store. While his friends distracted the owners with false promises of their parents' money, Jefferson was to swipe the object. He had been about to when his phone vibrated with the call; he ignored it and finished the job. The boys spent the night celebrating, drinking and smoking until the break of dawn. When he finally came home, it was to an empty house.
That was when he remembered the call. Calling the unknown number back, he reached the front desk of a local hospital. In a monotonous drone, the receptionist recited the details of the accident. The couple had been driving to their anniversary dinner when a drunk driver had nailed them. Neither had survived.
That night was the first time he had ever cried.
