Thursday morning, I was at the Queens location by six.

Mr. Alvarez had passed in his sleep. Eighty-one years old. His daughter wanted him in his blue suit, the one he wore to her wedding. I washed his hands first. I always start with the hands.

At 10:14, my phone buzzed on the steel counter. I peeled off one glove and answered.

"It's done," Rachel said.

"Tell me."

"My paralegal walked in during his slides. Q3 projections. A whole pie chart." I could hear her smiling. "She set the envelope right in front of him. Said, 'Julien Griffin, you've been served.' Twelve senior associates. Every head turned."

"What did he do?"

"He laughed. Tossed it in his briefcase like junk mail. Then he told the room, 'My wife is always dramatic.'" Rachel paused. "Did anyone laugh with him?"

"No?"

"No. And the rash came up. Red, all the way to his ear. Two board members looked at each other. Hartwell and Chen. The money men."

I looked down at Mr. Alvarez. His face was peaceful. Quiet. Nothing left to prove.

"Thank you, Rachel."

"He'll come at you tonight."

"I know."

I pulled the glove back on and picked up the comb.

* * *

The kitchen light was on when I got home. It was almost nine. Rain tapped the windows, soft and steady.

Julien stood by the island. His jacket was off. His tie hung loose. A glass of scotch sat in front of him, half gone. The envelope lay beside it. Torn open. Not torn up. That was new.

I heard music upstairs. Something soft and French. Estrella's door was closed.

"Do you know what you did today?" he said.

I set my bag on the counter. "I filed for divorce."

"In front of my board." His voice cracked on the last word. "In front of Hartwell. Do you know what Hartwell is worth to this company?"

"About forty percent of your next round."

He blinked. He didn't expect me to know that. He ran both hands through his hair and laughed. The same laugh he used on waiters. On doormen. On me, for eight years.

"Okay. Okay, darling. You made your point. You're angry. I get it." He came around the island. Slow. Like I was a skittish horse. "But think. Really think. What happens to you after this?"

"I keep working."

"Working." He said it like a dirty word. "Diana. Without my name, you have nothing. No invitations. No friends. No seat at any table in this city." He leaned in. Scotch on his breath. "You'll just be the daughter of a man who dressed corpses for a living."

The rain got louder for a second. Then it settled.

I thought of my father. His big gentle hands. The way he hummed while he worked. The last time I saw him, I told him I couldn't bring Julien to the shop. I said it was the smell. It wasn't the smell. He knew that. He nodded anyway.

He died while I was still in the hospital. I didn't get to say sorry.

I looked at Julien. I didn't look away. I didn't blink fast. I held still the way I hold still when a family screams at me in the viewing room. Grief makes people loud. So does fear.

"Bradley Funeral Services posted four point two million in revenue last fiscal year," I said.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Three locations. Forty-one staff. A waitlist in Tribeca." I picked up my bag. "Google it."

"You're lying."

"Then it'll be a short search."

I walked past him. My shoulder didn't touch his. I was careful about that.

On the stairs, I stopped. Just for a moment. The hallway mirror at the landing showed the kitchen below.

Julien stood alone under the light. He looked at the stairs. Then at the dark window. Then he pulled out his phone.

The screen lit his face blue. His thumb moved. Stopped. Scrolled. Scrolled again.

I watched his jaw go tight. A muscle jumped near his ear. The red crept up his neck, the way Rachel said. He set the phone face down on the counter. Then he picked it up again.

He touched his watch. Turned it on his wrist. Once. Twice.

Above me, the French music stopped. A door creaked open an inch. I didn't need to look. I could smell the lavender.

I went up the last few steps and into my room. I closed the door. Soft click.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my hands in my lap. The calluses caught the lamplight. Yellow and hard, like old candle wax.

Once, on our honeymoon, Julien kissed my palms. He said, "These hands will never work a day in their life. I promise."

He was right about one thing. They never worked for him.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from my night manager in Queens.

*Upper East Side cardiac ward called. Asking about our availability this week. Wouldn't say who.*

I read it twice. Outside, the rain kept falling. Steady. Patient.

Like it was waiting for something too.

Estrella didn't fight like a wife. She fought like a guest.

On Saturday, Camille Winthrop came for tea. Not for me. For Julien. Word was out that he was back, and Camille never missed a homecoming.

I came downstairs at 3:55 to say hello. Then I saw the coffee table.

My brochures were spread across the glass. *Bradley Funeral Services. Pre-Need Planning. Grief Support.* Under them, fanned out like playing cards, sat two supply catalogs. Cavity fluid. Trocars. Restorative wax. The spines were bent. The pages were open.

I kept those catalogs in the bottom drawer of my desk. In my study.

The doorbell rang.

Estrella floated in from the kitchen in lilac cashmere. "Oh," she said softly. "I was tidying. I didn't know where those went."

Camille swept in, all pearls and perfume. Her eyes landed on the table and stayed there. She picked up a catalog with two fingers, like it was wet.

"Restorative wax," she read aloud. "Diana. How very hands-on."

Estrella touched her handkerchief to her cheek. "Please don't tease her, Camille. It's honest work. Somebody has to do it."

From the doorway, Julien laughed. Too loud. Too fast.

I took the catalog from Camille's fingers. I gathered the others. I squared the corners against my palm.

"Most people meet me eventually," I said.

Camille's smile thinned. Nobody laughed after that.

I went back to my study and opened a blank page in my notebook. I wrote it the way I write intake notes.

*Item one. Subject entered private room without permission. Timing: four minutes before guest arrival. Audience selected with care.*

* * *

Monday night, I was in the laundry room steaming my white silk blouse. I had a meeting with a hospice director in the morning.

Estrella appeared in the doorway with a glass of red wine. She never drank red. She said it gave her headaches.

"Diana, can I talk to you? Woman to woman?"

She stepped closer. Her heel caught on nothing at all. The glass tipped. Cabernet splashed across the silk like a gunshot wound.

"Oh my God." Her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so clumsy. I'm such a burden."

Her right index finger tapped the stem of the glass. Fast. Fast. Fast.

I ran cold water. I pressed salt into the stain. I didn't look at her.

"Red comes out," I said. "If you don't panic."

She waited for more. I gave her nothing. After a while, she left.

*Item two. Staged accident. Prop brought in from another room. Subject waited for a reaction. Did not receive one.*

* * *

Tuesday dinner. Julien insisted we eat together. "Like a family," he said.

Estrella came down late. Her eyes were swollen and pink. Her lip trembled. She sat down, then stood up again, like she didn't know if she was allowed to sit.

"I have to say something." Her voice broke in the right place. "I ruined Diana's blouse. By accident. And she hasn't said one word to me since. I just... I can't do anything right in this house."

Then came the tears. Real ones this time. Or close enough.

Julien was out of his chair in a second. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She folded into him like she was made for it.

He glared at me over her head. "Was that necessary? She apologized."

I cut my chicken. Small, even pieces.

I remembered a different dinner, years ago. Our first apartment. Julien kissed my forehead and said, "I'll always be home by six. You'll never eat alone."

I ate alone for five years.

"Diana. I'm talking to you."

I looked at Estrella's face. The swelling sat on the outer lids. Not under the eyes. Friction, not crying. Her lashes were dry at the roots. I see faces up close every day. The dead don't lie to me. The living try.

I said nothing. I finished my plate, rinsed it, and went upstairs.

*Item three. Swelling consistent with rubbing. Target audience: husband. Result: successful.*

I closed the notebook. Three entries in four days. She was in a hurry.

People only hurry when something is about to go wrong.

* * *

At 11:40, my private line rang. Only a few people had that number. This wasn't one of them.

"Mrs. Griffin. This is Dr. Marcus Bennett." His voice was dry and careful. "I'm Eleanor's physician. We met once, at Lenox Hill. Five years ago. You won't remember."

I did remember. He was the only person who asked where my husband was.

"How did you get this number?"

"I've had it a long time. I hoped I'd never use it." Paper rustled on his end. "Eleanor's bloodwork is wrong. Her heart rate, her pressure, her fluid levels. They look like a woman who stopped taking her medication. She swears she hasn't missed a dose."

"Then audit the pills."

"I tried. The estate lawyers blocked it. Twice. They say I'm overstepping." He paused. "She named you in her directive. And I don't trust anyone else in that house."

I sat very still on the edge of my bed.

"When did her numbers change?" I asked.

"About six weeks ago. Around the time her household changed."

"Who handles her pills now?"

"I was told that's no longer my concern."

"Do you still have the original prescriptions? And her lab samples?"

"Every one."

"Keep them," I said. "Every record. Every vial. Make copies. Store them somewhere the Griffins don't own."

He was quiet. Then he said, "You think something is—"

"I think you should keep every record, Doctor."

Another pause. Longer. I heard him breathe out, slow, like a man setting down something heavy.

"Understood," he said.

The line went dead.

Down the hall, a door opened an inch. Soft footsteps. Then the faint rattle of something small and hard, shaken in a plastic bottle.

I turned off my lamp. I opened my notebook in the dark.

I didn't write anything. I didn't need to.