I had just turned fourteen years old the night my best friends and I decided to kill Mr. Martinsen. He was my friend. My mentor. I would even go so far as to say I loved him, as I looked up to Mr. Martinsen the same way I had looked up to my maternal grandfather, who died from a heart attack when I was ten. He was the best teacher I ever had. I will never forget him, or the knowledge he imparted to me, as long as I live. But on that summer evening...