artin guitar was "just an old guitar." My heart, a delicate mel
s new intern, Sabrina, a girl barely out of her teens. I watched, helpless, as
t me, his "supportive wife." He then called my cherished legacy "just an old guitar," spi
arn to let things go, Jocelyn," she taunted. The next morning, a frantic call: Sabrina had a severe "anxiety attack" and nee
ire future-all stolen, registered in Sabrina' s name, and now she was calling herse
ased. But in that sterile clinic room, bleeding from a forced donation for his mistress, a new, chilling resolve began to crystalliz