Just as my hand closed around the cool brass handle of the door, a deep voice called out behind me from the courtyard.

“Dr. Miller!”

I turned.

It was the father — the father of the little girl I had operated on that morning.

He had come to the venue after learning where I had disappeared to, to thank me, in person, for saving his daughter’s life.

His name, I would learn, was Zachary Howard.

He took in the whole scene in a single sweep of his eyes: my wrinkled wedding dress, the crowd of guests inside, Andrew with his arm now draped around Gemma’s waist.

He was a stranger.