It’s a specific look too. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed almost serpentlike, and her hands clenched into fists. I’ve only seen it twice in the eight years I’ve known her. Once when her parents promised her a new dress and backed out at the last minute. And the other time when she was bidding for an elective at St. Clements and they said she’d won the lottery, but she actually hadn’t.

But when I tell her we’re not going to Back Bay for our favorite pastime, pretending to be rich and going to different art galleries, she pouts. Hard.

“You’re going to get us killed, Dre.”

“No one is going to be murdering anyone.”

“You’re going to a person’s house just because they called you? That’s peak killer vibes.”

“It’s the donor’s family,” I remind her. “They aren’t going to kill me. They gave me the organ.”

“So they are going to kill you to take it back,” she hisses. “Did you ever think about why they suddenly want to meet now? Maybe it’s not even them! This could all be a lie!”

I can’t tell her what I think it means or why I really want to go visit the McIntyres. She’ll definitely think I’m losing my grip. And she might not be wrong.

Plus, if this is all a mistake, like Isobel thinks it is, I want to be able to do the normal thing: thank them for offering their son’s liver to me. That’s the least I can do, right? And if it’s some deranged stalker lying to me about being the donor’s family? Well, then I’m probably screwed anyway.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I look out the window, watching as the streets shift from residential to city landscape to the upper echelon of Boston society. The sun set not that long ago, so the city has a haunting summertime glow about it that I love. There’s nothing like Boston at dusk. The way the last light lingers over the Charles River. The only thing better is when it rains, and the cobblestone sidewalks have a silvery light to them.

“I just want to talk to them.”

“Let the record show that I think this is a bad idea,” she mutters, leaning over the steering wheel. We’re close.

“There. At the end of the street.”

Just ahead is a pristine-looking brownstone, with a gate and manicured lawn. It’s three floors, and the lights are all on. There’s a garage to the left of it, separated by an automatic gate. The house is wider than others on the street and takes up the space of two lots, making it almost as big as some houses I’ve seen in the suburbs.

“How much do you think this costs?” Isobel asks after she parks, the car rumbling before falling still.