Then, the day after her funeral, everything I thought I knew fell apart.
When I arrived carrying a container of beef stew, Victor wasn’t sitting beside his weathered shelter.
Instead, he was standing beside a black SUV.
He was clean-shaven, dressed in a dark coat, and holding something that made my heart stop.
My mother’s silver locket.
The very one she had claimed to lose when I was eight years old.
“I thought you couldn’t come, Fiona,” he said quietly.
I nearly dropped the container.
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