She froze; he waved at her, all cheery attention getting, and a quick toothy grin, then bent his attention back to the phone with an expression moving from pleased to irritated.

Wright was one of the most expressive men she had ever met, hunching shoulders, wild gestures, a voice that angled sharper and sharper. For him to greet her with a smile and a wave, after this morning’s incident . . .

He didn’t remember it. Or decided to let it go. Hell, from his point of view, what had happened? A little lost time, coming back to himself with Sylvie’s hands on his shoulders. For all she knew, he might think he had been trying to fugue-walk off the balcony, and she had put a stop to it.

The relief was bitter and strong and made her knees weak. If he didn’t remember, she didn’t have to explain that his ghost was all her doing. That the ghost occupying his skin and thoughts had come to Sylvie for something that had nothing to do with Wright. Knowing Demalion, it might be something as simple and as devastating as getting out his final wishes.

He’d tried to find Anna D, hadn’t he? His mother. It made too much sense.

Sylvie climbed the stairs slowly, rising as Wright’s voice rose.

“Jeez, Giselle, I told you. I’m in Miami. No, not on vacation. I swear. . . .”

He ran a hand through his hair, re-creating tufts that had disappeared with his shower; his grey T-shirt was damp at his nape. “No, I’m not staying at a hotel. You checked the credit cards? Giselle, I told you—”

He bumped his head against the balcony post, once, twice; a chip of red paint flecked off into his hair. “This is not a vacation! What does it matter who I’m staying with . . . ? No, I’m not staying with Sylvie.” He hunched a shoulder, half turned, his voice going harried.

Sylvie leaned against her open door, eavesdropping blatantly. Her name, his mouth. Interesting that his wife seemed to have more concerns about the company he was keeping than his health and condition. Demalion must have been keeping a pretty low profile, even in a confused and fragmentary state.

“—talk to Jamie? C’mon, I just want to say hi.”

Sylvie listened as his voice went soft and warm. A son, she remembered Alex saying. A very young one by the simple questions Wright was asking. You played with a dog? Was it a big dog?

Guilt shifted uneasily in her belly. A tiny spur reminding her that Wright’s case affected more than him; Demalion’s hold on Wright could injure a family. Wright was her client. Not Demalion.

But if he only wanted a chance for closure, for last words, a slower end to his murder, then maybe the possession was a problem that could take care of itself. Shepherd Wright around, keep him safe, while Demalion did what he needed to do, now that he remembered who he had been, now that he’d collected his last bit of soul.

Wright held up a single finger—just a moment—as she reached the top of the stairs. Sylvie brushed by him, heading for the AC in her apartment and another quiet moment to herself.

Wright had folded the blankets and left them at the side of the couch. He’d availed himself of her coffeepot, but had washed out his mug, left it neatly in the dish drainer beside the sink. Tidy-minded, and all Wright’s doing. Demalion tended to let the little things slide. Seemed stupid to think about it now, but Sylvie knew that somewhere in Chicago, Demalion’s bed was still unmade, still rumpled with their mingled sweat. His last day alive, and he hadn’t bothered to make the bed, or throw away the take-out containers from their last shared meal. Death left so many rough edges on a life.

A car honked outside, and she jerked back to focus. She traded Zoe’s jacket for the lightweight Windbreaker she’d dropped beside the couch the night before, collected her holster for more secure carriage of her gun, and caught Wright as he was coming back in, put her hand up, and ushered him back out. “Let’s go.”

“Been ready,” he said. “You don’t have a single thing to eat, you know that?”

“Grocery shopping’s so passé,” she said. “I’m a modern woman. I dine out.” It was hardly her best. It all felt artificial, interacting with him, waiting for Demalion to resurface.

He smiled, but it was as brittle as hers, his good humor forced. Sylvie, stuck between ignoring his mood and wallowing in her own, opted for investigating his. “So, your wife—”

“Thinks I’m having an early-onset midlife crisis? Or an affair? God only knows what she’s telling Jamie. He asked if my sleepover was fun. . . .” Long strides sent him down the stairs as if he could outrun his aggravation. By the time she caught up to him, he said, more temperately, “And I felt so much better after my nap.”

“Yeah?” she said. “That makes one of us.”

He licked his lip, a quick, nervous gesture. “I didn’t see you leave.”

“You take long showers,” she said, still clipped.

Wright stopped on the edge of the parking lot, bent down, and collected a piece of gravel, turned it about in his fingers, before chucking it back to the ground. “I . . . There’s another gap. I don’t remember it. Don’t remember what I did.”

“It’s all right,” she said.

“I thought I was going to help you, and you were going to help me. Does lying to me count as help? It’s all right? What does that even mean now? It’s all right—the ghost came back but did no harm? Or it’s all right—you killed it, and it’s all over now? It doesn’t feel over.” His breath was shallow, quick; his worn T-shirt shivered. He didn’t remember, was afraid of what he’d done but still determined to face it.

Sylvie closed her eyes. Keeping quiet until she knew what to say would be so much easier if she didn’t like Adam Wright. More than that, she respected him. He was scared, but he faced things head-on. Didn’t understand the problem, and instead of closing his eyes to it, started looking for new answers.

She swallowed, gave out truth that meant nothing much. “Your ghost made an appearance, and it’s all right, because you did the smart thing and came to me. The ghost is benign—”

“It’s in my skin, deeper than cancer. How is that benign?”

“It’s probably just a matter of communicating last wishes,” Sylvie said. “We’ll get you through this. Solve this.”

Solve it, she said, like it was as easy as that. Like solving this didn’t mean losing Demalion all over again.

Her little dark voice growled, fed her an inverted platitude, designed to disturb. Nothing sane seeks its own demise.

She crossed the lot, her gait stiff, some of her hope for an easy resolution broken. The truck hadn’t been in the sun long, but when she brushed the metal, it was nearly hot enough to burn. Wincing, she keyed it open, gestured Wright into the cab; he paused on seeing the trash can. “It’s not a snake in there, is it?”

“Nope,” she said. “But don’t kick it.”

There was some awkward maneuvering as he folded long legs around it, pink plastic with a copy of Vogue duct-taped over the top, bright spots against his jeans.

Once he was situated, once they’d started moving into traffic, he said diffidently, “So if he just wants to get out his last requests, why not ask me? Why climb inside my brain in the first place? I mean, in movies, ghosts can talk over radios and televisions.”

“You know it’s a him?” He hadn’t said anything but blah, blah kaleidoscope before. Why the hell clients just couldn’t be open from the start—he might have spared her some of the shock.

“Not what I asked,” Wright said, eyes narrowing. He leaned back against the seat, nudged the trash can with the edge of his shoe, and absently reached down to steady it. Next moment, he recoiled, slammed into Sylvie’s space; she yanked the wheel, yanked it back, and kept the truck in her lane through sheer will and effort. “Christ, Wright,” she panted. “What the hell?”

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “All ghost.” He looked wrung out, eyes glossed with tears, as if he’d stared too long into the sunlight. He raised a pointy elbow, shielded his face. Traffic rushed by on either side, and the blaring of horns faded to a memory.