but his eyes were alert.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t friendly.
He was watchful, like he’d seen grief turn into trouble before.
“You looking for someone?” he asked.
“My father,” I said. “I need to find his grave.”
The man studied me for a moment.
Then he shook his head—once.
“Don’t look,” he said quietly.
My heart sank.
“What do you mean don’t look?”
“He’s not here.”
I felt my stomach twist. “That’s not possible. My stepmother said—”
“I know what she said.” The man’s voice stayed low. “But he’s
