In front of you, behind you, all around you, killers everywhere. One, two, and three, is it for you or him or them? Red, red, red, red, red, red . . . What the F?
Junior is back and stupider than ever. It's all of us and the nonsense is irritating. Of course, I have killers in front of me and all around me. I'm me. Kane is Kane. And both of us came by our bad habits honestly. We have crappy fathers.
In other words, I push harmless Junior aside and head to a crime scene, and when I kneel beside the wealthy victim, I glance up to spy a painting that is pretty and one tone—red. When I inquire with the house manager about the artist, she can't remember who painted it, but she does know the name of the painting itself.
It's called Red.
The color of blood.
And now Junior has my attention.
Contains mature themes.
