I put the car in drive, pulled away from the curb, and headed south toward the Oak Creek town line.

The iron gate of Oak Creek Cemetery stood unlatched, swinging loose on its top hinge in the wind.

I parked by the maintenance shed and walked up the gravel path, my heavy plastic flashlight aimed ahead of my feet.

The tall dark pines dripped icy rain onto the shoulders of my winter coat as I walked between the rows.

I found the Rowan family plot three rows behind the granite water fountain, where the grass grew thick over the stone edging.

The main headstone read Claire Rowan, nineteen sixty-three to nineteen ninety, in raised block letters.