Someone had obtained a hospital wristband from the night of Emma’s accident and brought it here like a twisted trophy. Daniel unfolded the lined notebook paper. Written in dark blue ink was a single line: “Eighteen months now. Still going.” “Hey!” A faint rustle echoed from the treeline behind the cemetery wall. Daniel whipped his head around.
Through the fog, thirty yards away near the overgrown perimeter fence, stood a figure. It was a pale, young man, slender, wearing a dark jacket, his hood pulled back slightly. He was standing beneath the drooping branches of a weeping willow tree, gazing directly at Emma’s headstone. “Stop!” Daniel roared, springing to his feet and sprinting across the lawn.