The sound of the church bells marking seven o'clock echoes across the cemetery as I finally reach the top of the hill, slightly out of breath. Dad always did love this spot with its view over the city, but sometimes I think he chose it just to give me a workout.

I brush a strand of hair from my face and smile sadly at the sunflowers I've brought - his favorites. As I round the final corner, I stop abruptly.

Slumped against my father's headstone is Will O'Connor, of all people, his guitar case open beside him. A baseball cap attempts to hide his famous face, but there's no mistaking those broad shoulders and the way he nervously chews his lower lip. He's humming something under his breath that I can't quite recognize, his fingers resting on the guitar strings without actually playing.

The man who killed my father is sitting at his grave, looking like he might actually belong there.