Margaret POV

I hadn’t slept.

The image of her—Amelia—standing in the dairy aisle with a carton of milk in her hand refused to loosen its grip on my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face again. Older. Sharper. Alive.

Impossible.

Dead people did not buy groceries on a Tuesday afternoon.

Yet my hands still trembled on the steering wheel as I pulled into the supermarket parking lot the next morning. I told myself this was ridiculous. That grief did strange things to ...