Devin drove north along the western cemetery wall, the three-story row house–style apartment buildings to his left looking either well maintained or upgraded. Gentrification defined. He passed a second modern apartment complex before taking a left onto East Lafayette Avenue, where his mother had kept a secret residence since 2010. Upon turning, he immediately spied several brightly colored, full-building-facade street art mosaics. Devin presumed the neighborhood had looked significantly different twelve years ago. A lot more like the neighborhood due east of the cemetery.

He pulled up to the address and stopped to scan the street. East Lafayette Avenue was a one-way with cars tightly lining both sides. No boarded-up windows. Nobody milling around porches. About a quarter of the street-level windows were protected by some variation of steel burglar bars. A lot of new or restored three-story redbrick facades—his mother’s building not included. She must have missed the restoration memo or decided to ignore it. His money was on the latter.

The bricks had been painted a light gray, which was chipped or faded in several spots. The look hovered between intentionally weathered or recently neglected. Three mailboxes, squeezed together vertically, adorned the wall to the left of the white door. A rust streak stretched several bricks below the lowest mailbox. Not the darkest of stains, but on its way to being an eyesore. His mom also didn’t share the same gentrified optimism about crime. The street-level windows featured decorative, but very sturdy-looking, black wrought iron gates.

Devin drove halfway down the block before finding a parking space, barely managing to squeeze the older-model sedan between two oversize luxury SUVs. He wondered what one of these apartments was worth now. His mother had probably bought here because it was cheap, and nobody would think to look for her in this neighborhood. She was most likely sitting on a tidy profit at this point. Or someone was sitting on it. Hopefully his sister.

Kari shared a place with two other social workers from her office—the only way any of them could afford housing within semireasonable commuting distance to work. It was only fair. He got the boat. She got to sell the apartment. Devin was getting ahead of himself. For all he knew, all this was going to his father, the most logical destination.

Devin and Berg got out of the car, both of them taking a long look up and down the street.

“What do you think?” asked Berg.

“Looks clear,” said Devin, and Berg nodded. Nothing.