“Mrs. Kellerman?” he asked, holding his breath in silent prayer. She looked like someone who could pay in cash, and a client like this could pay his office rent for months.

“Indeed,” she replied. “And you are Mr. O’Neill?”

“That I am,” he said, stepping around the desk to tilt an office chair toward her. Too late, he noticed an ugly beetle squatting in the center of the seat and blanched, but she calmly picked it up before he could knock it away.

“Beetles are good luck,” she said, cradling it in her palm as she carried it to the open window and set it on the ledge. “This one eats aphids, so you should count yourself fortunate.”

He counted himself a prime idiot for making a terrible first impression, but she didn’t seem upset as she returned to sit in the same chair that had so recently housed that beetle. He was about to apologize for it when he noticed two hulking men standing in the hall outside his office.

“Who are the toughies?” he asked, immediately on guard. The men exuded menacing suspicion despite their fine clothing.

“They accompanied me here,” she replied. She glanced over her shoulder at the closest man. “It’s all right, Zeke. I’ll be fine if you’d like to wait downstairs.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Zeke said, “but we’ll wait right here.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Kellerman said. She stood to close the door, but the shadowy outlines of the men were still apparent through the frosted glass. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said to Patrick. “The Five Points has a rather alarming reputation, and I didn’t feel comfortable coming alone.”

It was understandable. The Five Points was named after the intersection of five streets in the middle of urban squalor and ramshackle tenements. It was the most notorious slum in the city, ruled by rough Irish street gangs when Patrick arrived almost two decades earlier. In recent years, reform-minded New Yorkers had torn down some of the worst tenements, renamed the streets, and tried to give the slum a new reputation, but he could understand that a woman like Mrs. Kellerman wouldn’t feel comfortable coming to this part of the city.

“How can I be of service, Mrs. Kellerman?”

Instead of answering, she nodded to the plant on the windowsill. “You’ve been overwatering that marigold, which is a shame. Marigold leaves can be brewed into a wonderfully healing solution with astringent properties.”

He leaned back in his seat, wishing she would keep talking. Her voice was so gentle. It was calming and joyful at the same time. Soothing. “How do you know so much about marigolds?”