Eight
I looked at my wedding ring as I sat in the parking lot of the Myerton Police Department on Monday morning. I spent a restless Saturday night tossing and turning, pacing in my room, reading the note and emails over and over again for some clue—any clue—to the sender’s identity. But there was none. Plus, I had no proof that the person who wrote the letter and the emails was the person who came to the confessional.
But that person had left my wedding ring. Which means that person had gotten it off of Joan’s headstone.
Sunday mass was a fog. I do remember looking out over the audience and thinking, Is he here? Is he watching me?
I stood on the steps greeting the parishioners as they filed out. I sensed a change in the mood. As people spoke, I heard sympathy in some, pity in o
