I was so innocent then.
Don't get me wrong—I'd been through a lot, starting with the savage murders of both my parents, when I was only five years old. I'd been kidnapped and raised mostly on the road, by the late, great Lillian Travers, living under an alias that has since become more representative of who I really am than my given name—Mary Josephine Mayhugh—could ever be.
I'm Mojo Sheepshanks now, and as far as I can tell, I always will be.
Then again, you never know.
That's what I've learned since the day I sat in the back of an overcrowded church in Cave Creek, Arizona, on a hot day in early May, too shaken to cry. You just never know—about anything, or anybody.
The casket in front of the altar was painfully small, made of gleaming black wood, and it was open. The body of seven year old Gillian Pellway lay inside, nestled on cushions of white silk, clad in a blue ruffled dress, her small hands folded across her chest. I know it ...
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