Chapter 2

"Mom."

A small voice from the doorway.

A little girl, maybe seven, crossed the room and pressed herself against Maggie's side. She had Daniel's eyes. His exact shade of gray-green. His too-serious brow.

"When is Daddy coming home? I miss him."

I looked at the infant on Maggie's lap. The girl nestled at her hip. The stroller with its cheerful mobile. A complete, self-contained world.

I pressed my hands flat against my thighs beneath the table.

"A son and a daughter," I said. "You're so lucky."

Maggie glowed. "We really are."

Daniel and I had tried to have children. Or rather: I had tried, and he had managed to be unavailable for every carefully timed attempt. Too tired. Too stressed. We were intellectuals, he said. Responsible people. A child right now would derail everything.

Later it became something he called a lifestyle choice. A philosophy. He'd talk about the freedom of a childless marriage with the quiet conviction of a man who'd given it a great deal of thought.

He had. Just not in the direction I'd assumed.

He already had his children. He hadn't needed mine.

Maggie glanced at her phone. "He's almost never late getting home. Today is just one of those days — sorry to keep you waiting."

I stared at her.

Daniel had told me "working late" so many times the phrase had become white noise. Every unanswered call. Every canceled visit. Every holiday I spent alone in a government facility, eating cafeteria food and telling myself the work was worth it.

He was apparently home for dinner every single night at this address.

"My place is close," Maggie said, standing and lifting the baby. "Want to wait somewhere warm?"

I stood before she'd finished the sentence.

"Does he live with your family?" I asked, keeping my voice light.

"His parents are gone. It's just mine. And honestly—" she smiled, a little proud, "—he treats my parents like his own. My dad actually cried at Christmas last year. Said he never thought he'd have a son like Daniel."

I thought about the woman in the memory care unit. The one who'd wandered out of her room during a storm, ended up in the facility's ornamental pond, and had to be pulled out by two nurses. The one Daniel had told me was "handled" when I called in a panic from a secure phone line at two in the morning. Handled by me, as it turned out.

We turned a corner, and I glanced down at the little girl's backpack.

Embroidered on the front panel, in neat yellow thread: NSA FAMILY SERVICES SCHOOL — FORT MEADE.

I stopped walking.

Maggie noticed and smiled back at me. "Her school. Special placement — Daniel qualified because of his sister." Her voice softened. "She died on duty. Six years ago. NSA."

The sidewalk tilted.

"His sister," I said.

"Claire." She said the name gently, like she'd said it many times. "He cleared out all her things afterward. Said he couldn't bear the reminders. Even the photos." She reached into her bag and pressed a hand warmer into my palm — small, flat, already warm. "You look pale. Are you cold? Daniel always keeps extras in my bag. He worries about my circulation in winter."

My name is Claire Mercer.

I am apparently dead.