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He heard me coming but didn’t turn around. He simply held his hand on Sarah’s headstone.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice drier than I intended. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Could you tell me who you are?”
He stood up slowly. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A beard reaching his chest. Tattoos on both arms. The kind of man Sarah would avoid crossing the street. But his eyes were red. He’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you for what?”
He looked at the headstone, then back at me. “Your wife saved my daughter’s life. I came here to tell you that Kaylee is still alive thanks to you.”
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I stared at him. “Sarah never mentioned a girl named Kaylee.”
“She didn’t know her personally.” He probably didn’t even remember me. But I remember her. He paused. “Can I tell you what happened?”
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We were sitting. I was on one side of Sarah’s grave. He was on the other.
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