It was a photograph of my dead wife, Margaret.

For several agonizing seconds, nobody inside the house moved a single inch.

Florence stood completely still across the street in her bright wedding dress.

The pristine white lace that had appeared so pure and beautiful just an hour ago now looked deeply sinister in the gray daylight.

She held the old photograph firmly in her hand.

It was a picture of Margaret, my beloved late wife, the mother of my child, the woman whose untimely passing I had spent eleven painful years trying not to question.