A good reason to stay awake and alert, she thinks, as, on the screen of the cell phone, she watches the Lyft car stagger robotically through its paces as it zeroes in on her location.

The estate lawyer’s office is twenty minutes toward the central, skyscraper-infested part of the city, near, but not in, what in New Orleans would be called the business district. Rose doesn’t know what it is called in Charlotte. Like many other private practices, the office is in a repurposed home. What was once the front lawn is paved to make an eight-car parking lot, prettily edged with planter boxes to soften the blow for a neighborhood in transition from residential to commercial.

The building is two stories, of the ubiquitous brick, painted pale yellow with forest-green shutters. A sign, imitating an old brass plaque, lists the estate lawyer and another law firm, JENSON & DAUGHTERS. An omen, Rose hopes, indicating that the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket, or at least not as quickly as she sometimes fears.

The driver lets her off. Rose takes a moment to gather herself, make sure that her costume—conservative Izzy elegance—is hanging neatly and that there is no lipstick on her teeth. Her objective is to look overwhelmingly sane and utterly harmless. To further this effect, Mel had brought her pearl stud earrings, a pearl necklace, and a clutch bag that matches the shoes. The clutch holds nothing but a cell phone and a lipstick. These are all the personal accoutrements Rose can lay claim to, unless one counts acrylic animal skins and three plastic arrows, one missing the feathers.

Inside the building, a receptionist, serving both firms, is seated behind a faux antique cherrywood desk that supports a discreet computer and phone. She directs Rose to the elevator. Given it is a two-story house, Rose requests the stairs. The receptionist emits a mildly irritated huff, then indicates a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT on the far side of the room.

The stairs, plain and shabby, are a dirty little secret the elevator aficionados are spared. As she emerges, she finds Greene and Associates to her right. The door is open. There are two rooms in the suite; the first, the paralegal’s domain, guards the second, an inner sanctum where the lawyer holds dominion.

The paralegal’s desk is untenanted. As Rose enters, a small, pleasant-looking woman, midfifties at a guess, with narrow shoulders and wide hips, comes into view from the inner office. A mischievous smile quirks her thin lips. The lenses of her oversized glasses reflect the gray of the walls. “Mrs. Dennis.” She advances with a fine-boned hand, graced with an emerald ring, the stone too heavy for the delicate fingers, extended. “I was so sorry to hear about your loss.” Her handshake is firm, her flesh cool and dry. “Come in, come in. My paralegal is out on an errand. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”