Hadley wasn’t all that jazzed to call on a murderer. But Lowe assured her it would be fine: Mr. Trotter had died ten years ago, so they’d be calling on his son. Hugo Junior had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps. Hopefully not the murderous ones.

Lawndale—“the City of the Silent”—was half an hour from San Francisco. And this is where the younger Mr. Trotter now ran his father’s business, the Gilded Rest Funeral Home and Crematorium. Lowe had reserved the last appointment of the following day, so that he and his “sister” could make funeral arrangements.

He provided all this information without a word about the subject that hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d left him at the wharf.

The kiss.

She’d crashed into him like she was outrunning a storm. And it was indescribably wonderful. Until she panicked. Now she teetered between the fear that it would happen again and the fear that it wouldn’t.

“I’d like to leave at four in the afternoon tomorrow, just to make sure we make it in plenty of time,” his voice said over the crackling line in her office. “We’ll be playing the role of well-to-do siblings, so you’ll need to look as if you have money.”

“I do have money,” she reminded him.

“And you have plenty of mourning clothes, which finally works in your favor. But wear the most expensive ones—not something you’d wear to work.”

“Yes, yes,” she said irritably, even though she could hear the teasing in his voice over the line. “It’ll look suspicious if I come to work dressed to the nines, so I suppose I’ll have to invent an excuse to leave.”

“Headache or a cold coming on,” he suggested. “I’m sure even you can dream up a lie that small.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building around four.”

“Not on Lulu,” she insisted.

“No, an actual car. Must play the part. Are you game?”

Was she?

Come the next day, she spent all afternoon trying on clothes and worrying herself into a frazzled knot. What was she supposed to do when she saw him? Pretend the kiss never happened? Angry with both herself and him, she finally picked a dress that covered up as much skin as possible. She further armored herself with gloves and fur and a brimmed hat that cast half her face in shadow. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby.

He was already waiting for her.

With the exception of a white shirt, every stitch of clothing was black, from the silk band of his fedora, to the well-cut lines of his bespoke suit, to the perfect polish of his shoes. A silver pocket watch chain looped from one button to a pocket on his vest, and his overcoat flowed to his calves.

Gone was the treasure hunter with a lawbreaking family, and in his place stood a well-to-do society man—an unbearably handsome one. Her heart hammered as if it didn’t give a damn about her fears and worries, as if it were saying: Look! There’s the beautiful man who kissed you like you were the most desirable woman on earth. Go throw yourself at him again!

She ignored these instincts and halted several feet away. He ducked his head to catch her gaze beneath the brim of her hat, and he smiled slowly as he said, “Hello.”

Her reply sounded like the gurgle of an old drain. Dear God. He was making her stupid. Before the night was over, she’d have forgotten how to spell and count.

Dusk fell as he led her to a silver Packard out front. “Very nice,” she remarked, regaining her grasp of the English language.

“It was my mother’s,” he said, holding the passenger door open for her. “Aida’s been driving it. I switched out the license plate, just in case.”

“You did what?”

“My brother’s got a stack of them for bootlegging,” he said, as if that made it better.

The car was as beautiful inside as she was on the outside—all leather and wood and polished chrome. The two-seater’s top was up and the interior was warm. A little too warm when Lowe’s long legs stretched into the driver’s seat. He smelled clean. Like lemon and rosemary.

“What’s the story you’ve concocted?” she asked as he started the rumbling engine and pulled out of her apartment building’s entrance.

“Our older sister died. We want her cremated.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t like to plan too far in advance,” he said. “Comes off as rehearsed. So just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

Easier said than done. As dusk deepened and lights began twinkling, they drove south through the city until the buildings grew shorter and farther apart, the road patchy and dotted with ruts. And all the while, a heavy silence sat between them. Until Lowe broke it.

“You look lovely.”

Her response leapt out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Yesterday was a mistake.”

“I disagree.”

“Well, it will never happen again.”

A long pause. “All right.”

She forced her twined fingers to relax and gazed out the window. Was he going to say nothing more about it? She tried again. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

“If you’re not interested, you’re not interested.”

“It’s not—”

“No need to explain yourself. Consider the matter in the past.”

She couldn’t make out his expression in the shadowed car. This was not going how she wanted it to. She struggled to put words to her thoughts, but he beat her to it.

“Glad I didn’t make a fool of myself asking you out this weekend,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Some friends of mine from the history department at Berkeley are meeting up for drinks and dancing in North Beach. I knew it wasn’t your thing, but everyone’s bringing dates.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, an old college sweetheart recently broke off her engagement and left me a couple of messages, wanting to reconnect.”

She stilled. “Oh?”

“Good old Ruby. A little wild. God knows she cheated on me left and right. But she’s fun at a party. I’ll see if she wants to go.”

Ruby. What a wretched name.

She rolled down the window to get some air as images of supper clubs and jazz bands collided in her head. Jazz bands and dancing and a wild woman who wanted to reconnect with him. A woman he’d taken to bed? Did the time they’d spent together mean so little to him that he could just shrug it off and start up with another girl?

But if she cared that much, she shouldn’t have told him their kiss was a mistake. Why did she say that, anyway? She was terrible at relationships. Part of her had given up on men entirely, and was convinced she’d never fall in love or have a family. But another part of her still hoped. The same part that lay awake at night wanting Lowe. Fantasizing he did the same for her.

Her chest ached. Raw, hurt feelings tightened her throat. Tears threatened.

“Hey,” he said in a softer voice. “You okay?”

“Just a little warm in here,” she said, calming her emotions. This was not the time to fall apart like a small child who hadn’t gotten her way. They had work to do.

“Mint?” he asked, offering her the open roll of candy in his hand.

She took three.

After the San Mateo County sign, they drove through the rural town of Lawndale, or Colma, as it used to be known. The necropolis. In the distance, rolling hills were lined with cemetery after cemetery, each privately owned and operated. Graves aside, there wasn’t much more in town but an athletic club, a train depot, and a downtown area filled with funeral homes.

Trotter’s place was a fat two-story home. The scent of cleaning fluid greeted them at the door, along with a cheerless elderly secretary, who led them into Trotter’s empty office.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, as they perched on two visitors chairs in front of an old desk. Business licenses and funerary certifications hung in dusty frames along the wall. No urns in sight, but Hadley thought she possibly detected a strange energy; another crossbar might be here.

“You need anything?” the secretary asked. “Coffee? Water? I’m just about to lock up and leave for the day.”

“Nothing, thank you,” Lowe said, sounding weary and empty. Was he already in character? Now she wished she would’ve spent the ride over pressing him for more information on his plan instead of pining over him like a lovesick girl. As soon as the secretary closed the door, Lowe leaned closer and whispered, “You don’t feel anything?”

“I don’t want to talk about that here,” she whispered back. “Later.”

“What?”

She glanced at him. “What what?”

“I meant the amulet crossbar. Do you feel its presence?”

Her cheeks heated. “Yes, I believe so. But it’s hard to tell. This place makes me anxious.” She took off her hat and fanned herself.

The door to the office opened, and a portly blond man wearing an ill-fitting suit entered. He looked Hadley’s age. Maybe younger. “Good evening, Mr. Smith,” he said to Lowe, extending his hand. “I’m Bill Trotter.”

Lowe shook and said, “This is my sister, Ruby.”

Ruby? His nightclub floozy? What in the world was he playing at?

“Miss Smith,” the young funeral director said, bowing his head. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” He didn’t sound all that sorry. If she didn’t know any better, she might think he was looking her over. That didn’t happen often. Maybe he recognized a kindred spirit whose life work also centered on death. “Won’t you please sit down? I’ll try to make this as easy for you as possible.”

The man’s chair creaked as he lowered himself into it. “Mr. Smith, I believe you told my secretary that your sister passed two days ago?”

“Poor Esmerelda,” Lowe said. “We came home to find her bludgeoned on the parlor floor.”