Paul turned around. “Who the hell – ”
The man stepped into the light.
It was Derek.
My legs buckled. Someone screamed. I don’t know if it was me.
Derek walked down the aisle, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He looked older. Scarred. His eyes were hollow.
He stopped three feet from me.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice raspy. “But we need to talk. Right now.”
I couldn’t breathe. “You… you died. They said you were…”
Derek’s jaw clenched. He pulled something from his jacket. A photograph. Wrinkled. Stained with what looked like blood.
He held it up so only I could see it.
It was a picture of me. And Paul. Taken six months before Derek’s death.
I looked at Paul. His face had gone white.
