The service ended. People started drifting toward the doors. I was standing there thanking them because grieving children are apparently supposed to be polite.
Then someone touched my arm. I turned. And every part of me seized up.
It was him. The man from the locket. He looked just as shocked as I felt.
Then he said, quietly, “We don’t know each other, but we need to talk. I don’t think your mother told you the truth.”
I took a step back. “What?”
He glanced around at the people still leaving.
“Not here.”
