is James?”
His eyes closed briefly.
And somehow I already knew.
“Is he alive?”
I forced the question out.
“No,” Adrian answered.
“No, Mary. He isn’t.”
I had believed my husband dead for fifty-six years.
That answer should not have destroyed me.
But for forty-three minutes that morning, James had lived again.
And now Adrian had taken him away for the second time.
I shoved the card against Adrian’s chest.
“Then who wrote this?”
He stared at it.
“I did.”
My stomach turned.
“You wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“You wrote in
