I parked half a block away and watched Wendy lead Fiona toward a steel door.
Then the door opened.
A man stepped outside.
And the moment I saw his face, my hands locked around the steering wheel.
Because according to my wife, that man had been dead for eight years.
He was Jessi’s father.
Fiona’s grandfather.
Harold.
The man whose funeral my wife had cried at for a week.
The man whose photograph sat on our mantel with a black ribbon across the corner.
