By the time Sarah Spenser answers the door, Char is off caressing the tentative green buds of rhododendron bushes on the lawn and singing to them. Loudly. Off-key. In Gaelic. Which she doesn’t speak. Sarah Spenser says nothing, but her cold gaze sweeps past my face, and lands squarely on my belly bump, where the ice in her eyes morphs into disgust. Still, I smile my biggest Viva Rica smile, exuding an air of professional. Sensible. Convincing. Not even wearing a slutty dress, morning-after makeup, and an old woolly toque like I was last time I stood on this doorstep.

Char comes galloping over, all grinny and wide-eyed, still humming the melody of the tune she’d been singing. “Man, they totally dig that Gaelic music shit. ‘Kill ’em Maroon,’ or whatever they wanted me to sing.”

“What?” Sarah sneers.

“The song old Rozzy liked to sing in the garden, duh.” Char’s dreads do a serpentine flop dance as she juts her face forward.

“‘Gillean Mo Run.’ It was Mother’s favourite song.” Sarah’s face is harder, stonier than when she opened the door. “Nice of my brother to share some of our family’s history with you. That’s all you’ll be getting.”

“Yeah, well, the bushes are pissed that you won’t even sing to them” — Char’s voice drops to a whisper — “so they told me all of the things.”

I elbow Char in the ribcage and hiss, “Not-acting-crazy cop, remember?”

“What do you want?” Sarah glares.

“I have a business proposal you might be interested in. One that could revive the Spenser brand, financially. And socially.” I extend my hand, but it might as well be a toilet plunger the way Sarah Spenser grimaces and recoils. Still, I can tell she’s intrigued, at least enough to humour me. Money and status are irresistible lures for the likes Sarah Spenser, even when dangled by the likes of me.

“Fifteen minutes.” She opens the door just wide enough for my belly and Char’s dreadlocks to squeeze inside. I follow Sarah through the hallway, where the old bones of the Spenser house have been caked and covered with gleaming, sleek, off-white modernity. Her office is decked out with a mahogany table, leather chairs, and crystal whiskey decanters. On the way there, we lose Char. Sarah has a white-knuckle grip on her nerves as the two of us sit, face to face. Despite the terse grin, the proud posture, and the tented fingers, I can see it. A thick grey mass heaves and hovers over the anxious flurry of blood- and bile-coloured sparks that spit around her head. Gripping. Containing. Controlling. I look for a way in. A way to soften her. A place to begin the bridge we need built.

“As you know, Alec is alive and well.” I watch for signs of a thaw. “We’re working together on a new initiative. A one-of-a-kind cemetery comprised of eco-burial pods that grow trees.”

“And?” she says, eyes shifting down to the screen of her little gold-cased phone where a timer counts down our fifteen minutes of grace, her French manicured talons dropping down to impatiently drum the table surface in rhythmic displeasure.