When a bu:lly sh0ved my 75-year-old mother during a confrontation in her North Carolina diner and warned he could do whatever he wanted, the regulars lowered their eyes and the sheriff called it a fall.
Until that moment, I had never connected his death to the Cain family. “Don’t gather a storm,” my mother whispered. It was an old expression she used whenever she wanted me to leave trouble alone. But the trouble had already entered her diner. The following morning, I spoke to the waitress, the cook, and two…