The headstone was simple, polished black granite. It stood in a row of others, but yours was the only one with fresh flowers—white lilies, already beginning to wilt at the edges. The engraved letters were still sharp to the touch.

A few hundred yards away, nestled in the deep shadow of an old oak at the crest of the next hill, a figure stood perfectly still. Binoculars were lowered slowly from a face half-hidden by a dark hood.