« I’m sorry, » I started. « He never— »
Then I saw the keychain hanging from the man’s bag.
A brass guitar pick.
Old. Tarnished. Nicked on one edge.
Mark’s.
Not one like it. His.
He used to keep it in his pocket even when he had gone months without playing. He would tap it against countertops when he was thinking. I knew that stupid little piece of metal by sight.
I stared at it and said, « Where did you get that? »
The man looked down. Then back at me.
« Your husband gave it to me. »
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