Chapter 2

"That' s impossible," Mrs. Dubois said, her voice sharp. "The viewing is over. He' s at the family estate, prepared for his final rest."

My gaze didn' t waver. "Then the deal is off. The information you' ve given me has discrepancies. A ritual based on false data is a curse, not a blessing. It could sever your family line for good, not secure it. Take your money and go."

I pushed the thick envelope back across the table. I was bluffing, mostly. I had to see the body. I had to know if it was really him.

Panic flashed in her eyes, quickly masked by frustration. She needed me, or at least she needed someone who did what I do. And my grandmother had ensured I was the only one in a five-hundred-mile radius with the skills and the reputation.

"Fine," she snapped. "Fine. You can come to the house. But you will be discreet. No one can know the true reason you are there. You are a... grief counselor. A specialist in helping families process sudden loss."

"Whatever you want to call me," I said, standing up. "Let' s go. My time costs money."

The Dubois estate was a monstrosity of stone and glass perched on a hill overlooking the city, a place where money was so old it had turned into architecture. A grim-faced man in a black suit, who Mrs. Dubois introduced as her husband, met us at the door. He was tall, with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. He looked me over with an air of cold appraisal.

"This is the specialist I told you about, dear," Mrs. Dubois said to him.

"Of course," Mr. Dubois said, his voice smooth as oil. "We' re so grateful you could come on such short notice. The house is in mourning."

He led me into a grand living room. The air was thick with the cloying scent of lilies. But beneath it, I smelled something else. Something coppery and sharp.

Bleach. And blood.

On the pristine white marble floor, near a grand staircase, was a faint, dark stain that someone had tried, and failed, to completely scrub away. It was the source of the smell.

Mr. Dubois followed my gaze. "A terrible accident. He fell. Down the stairs. The car crash story was for the public. The truth is too... painful."

His eyes were filled with a performance of sorrow so perfect it had to be fake. This wasn' t a house of mourning. It was a crime scene.

I turned back to Mrs. Dubois. "The conditions are more complicated than you described. The price just went up. Another hundred thousand. Non-negotiable."

Mr. Dubois' s smile tightened at the edges. "Are you serious?"

"A violent death leaves a turbulent spirit," I said, my voice low and conspiratorial. "It makes my work infinitely more dangerous and difficult. I' m putting myself at great spiritual risk. You want the job done right, you pay the price. Or you can find someone else and hope they don' t turn your house into a permanent haunting."

Mrs. Dubois shot her husband a look, and he reluctantly nodded. "Pay her."

"Before we proceed," I said, pressing my advantage, "you need to understand how I work. My family has been doing this for generations. We started as undertakers, preparing bodies in the old ways. We learned that death isn' t always a clean break. There are echoes. We help settle them. The 'grief counseling' is just how we explain it to the modern world."

I was weaving a story they could understand, a mix of ancient tradition and new-age nonsense. It was my standard speech to put clients at ease, to make my strange profession seem grounded and legitimate.

"We find your story fascinating," Mr. Dubois said, his tone dripping with false sincerity. "But for our safety, and yours, we' ll need to take your phone. No distractions. We need you completely focused."

A man who looked like a bodyguard stepped forward, hand outstretched. It was a test. And a trap. They wanted to isolate me.

I handed over my phone without argument. "Fine. But I have my own rules for the ritual."

I looked both of them in the eye. "First, once I enter the room with him, no one else comes in. No one. Not until I open the door myself. Second, no cameras, no listening devices. The energy must be pure. Any form of observation will disrupt the connection and could have... explosive consequences."

I let that last word hang in the air.

"And third," I added, looking pointedly at Mr. Dubois, "you need to be absolutely certain about the information you' ve given me. The name, the birth date. If you' ve lied to me about any of it, the spirit I call might not be your son' s. And you really don' t want a stranger' s angry ghost attached to your family line. Trust me."

Mr. Dubois' s jaw clenched. For a moment, I saw the predator behind the mask.

"The information is correct," he said, the words clipped. "He is our son. Alexander Dubois."

"Good," I said, picking up my bag of tools. "Then show me to his room."

I was walking into the lion' s den, armed with nothing but my grandmother' s strange traditions and a lie of my own. But I had to know the truth. I had to see his face.

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