She held out a small, folded note. I looked where she was pointing, but there was no one there. Just an empty chair draped in black. My blood ran cold as I took the paper. I unfolded it, and the words scrawled there sent me running from the funeral hall, clutching my daughter as if the devil himself were at our heels.

My name is Britney. A year ago, I was a thirty-year-old single mother, rebuilding a life from the ashes of a tragedy. My husband, the love of my life, was killed in a car accident when I was five months pregnant with Maddie. One ordinary morning he kissed me goodbye, told our unborn baby he loved her, and walked out the door, never to return.