Daniel had died two and a half years ago and he first came to her in a dream the night before his funeral. It had been such a relief to see him healthy and clean and not in a heroin nod, and in her sleep, they had talked as they’d been able to before the addiction had really ground him down. The jump to “real life” had occurred about six months later. One morning, she’d been talking to him and her alarm had gone off. Without thinking twice about it, she’d reached over and silenced the thing . . . only to realize she was awake and he was still very much with her.

Daniel had smiled as she’d shot upright—like he was proud of himself. And then in his chilled-out way, he’d informed her that she wasn’t losing her mind. There was, in fact, an afterlife, and he was in it.

It had taken some time to get used to, but two years later, she no longer questioned his periodic hi-how-areyas—although she did keep his visits to herself. After all, just because she didn’t think she was crazy, that wasn’t to say others might disagree—and who needed that? Besides, if he was a hallucination and she was turning into something out of A Beautiful Mind, well . . . it worked for her, so to hell with the mental-health experts: She had missed Daniel so much and she had him back in a way.

Refocusing on the brick walk-ups that rose on either side of Tremont Street, she tracked the numbers when she could see them around the doors. On some level, she couldn’t believe she’d gotten her client bail, but then, his lack of priors and the general overcrowding in the system had worked in their favor.

Mr. Rothe, on the other hand, had seemed neither surprised nor pleased when she’d told him. He had just asked her in his polite, quiet way to go to his apartment and get twenty-five thousand dollars in cash—because there was no one he could call to make that kind of a run.

Sure. No problem. Right.

Because handling ill-gotten cash didn’t make her an accomplice or threaten her bar status in any way.

She was still shaking her head at the situation as she slowed down in front of a three-story house that had been cut up into apartments. There was no parking space for miles—naturally. With a curse, she went around the block a couple of times, wondering if she dared double-park it, when—hallelujah—someone pulled out across the street. It took her a second and a half to do an illegal U-ey and wedge her sedan into the spot. She didn’t have a residential parking sticker, but she wasn’t going to be long, and at least she wasn’t in front of a hydrant.