Larry explained that since my father was fifteen, he had struggled with a hidden addiction to gambling. It started with dog tracks and small bets, but it had spiraled into a mountain of debt. My grandfather had bailed him out once, but the cycle hadn’t stopped.
“He probably thought he had it under control,” Larry said, his eyes filled with pity. But the “Level 1 Priority” calls weren’t about work; they were likely threats from bookies. Dad hadn’t left us because he didn’t love us—he left to lead the danger away.
The shame of his failure had finally broken him when the syndicate came to collect. Larry walked to his garage and opened a hidden cabinet, pulling out a heavy, tinted envelope. When he opened it, my eyes widened at the literal mountain of cash inside.
“I’ve been saving this for years, just in case he fell again,” Larry whispered. He planned to pay off the bookies off-the-record to ensure my father’s safety. “If we involve the precinct now, we might never see Mark alive again,” he added grimly.
We sat in the dim light of the garage, wondering how we would even find the criminals to pay them. “You don’t contact people like this,” Larry said, his face hardening. “They contact you.” As if on cue, his cell phone began to vibrate on the workbench.
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