The man crossed the headstones, wrapping himself up in his orange jacket even tighter. The wind was biting across the cemetery.

He walked until he found Gabriel’s. The only reason they knew his name was because the man had told them. But not even he had known when Gabriel had been born, only when he had retrieved the body from the dark waters…

He shivered, not from the cold.

The wind fluttered a piece of peach-colored paper in the flowers. The man stared and plucked it from the petals. It was roughly business card-sized, and had a typewriter font.

To Gregory Crenshaw, it read.

The first Central Park Cafe from the north side, 8:00 PM, 11/27/07.

And then it had three words that flared his mind wide open, making the November chill even chillier.

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