After Sutter’s death, I couldn’t live in that house by myself. The house that had a private bowling alley and two-screen movie theater, but lacked wallpapered hallways lined with family photos. The house that felt like it had more bedrooms than the White House, but only one was ever occupied. The house that was never a home.

Sutter did some bad things. He did some really bad things that ultimately resulted in his murder right outside The Loft, a nightclub in Palm Beach. I miss him, and by missing him I feel like, in a way, I’m carrying on his suboptimal legacy of being a malefactor. Is it considered a “crime” to yearn for the presence of a man who did the unthinkable?

More than anything, I wanted a fresh start. I needed to get away from the societal judgment of being Sutter’s widow; a crime lord’s now ex-wife. San Francisco welcomed me with open arms. It was a city where I knew no one, and no one knew me. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Or so I thought…

“Stop! Hands on your head and get down on your knees!”

The voice of the FBI agent boomed through the bistro. Every head turned in the direction of my table for one. I looked up to see three agents charging towards me.

“Layla Woods, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sutter Woods. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“What?”