It was Damian’s voice.
I whipped my head around, locking eyes with the ghost of my dead husband.
You can call me Paige, and I’m 28 years old. Until recently, I was a blissfully happy bride.
Damian and I met at a small café where I worked part-time. He was that quiet, mysterious guy who always tipped well, buried in a book while sipping his coffee.
