He had traded the cage for the lumberyard, trading blood for sawdust to provide for Larry. He didn't miss the violence. But tonight, he realized the violence hadn't forgotten him. It was a tool he had buried, but the rust hadn't destroyed its edge.
Thursday afternoon, the thick scent of cut cedar was overpowered by the smell of expensive cologne. Agrippa was loading two-by-fours into a contractor’s truck when a sleek, black SUV pulled into the gravel lot.
A man stepped out. He was older than the kids at the park, late thirties, dressed in a sharp suit that looked absurd against the backdrop of industrial machinery. But it was the face that caught Agrippa's attention—it shared the same heavy brow and arrogant jawline as Trent.
"Agrippa Fisher," the man said, approaching the loading bay. It wasn't a question.
Agrippa set down the lumber, wiping his calloused hands on his jeans. "Can I help you?"