I searched for the Prescott name for nearly an hour.

Anger gathered tight in my throat.

Three years of waiting for a visit, a letter, or a single phone call from the man who raised me.

Now there was only a mound of fresh earth somewhere in this huge field.

A sharp metallic snap cut through the sound of the rain.

I turned toward the noise.

An older man stood near a large oak tree in the older section of the cemetery.

He wore a yellow rain slicker and held a pair of rusty garden shears.