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the impression that she had long hair. It was a good illusion, and probably an expensive one, but from the crème of her designer dress to the nearly perfect skin under its even more perfect makeup—all so understated that, at a glance, you might have been fooled into thinking she wasn’t wearing makeup—everything about her breathed money. I’d had enough rich clients to know the taste of someone who had always had money. Two days later I was betting that Natalie Zell was someone who had never wanted for anything and didn’t see any reason for that to change. She crooked her pale lips and they caught the light, shining, very sparkly in a subdued sort of way. Old money is seldom gaudy; they leave that for the nouveau riche.
    “I want you to raise my husband from the dead, Ms. Blake,” she said, smiling.
    I searched her face for signs of grief, but her grayish-green eyes were wide and unmarred with anything but a faint humor and a force of personality quietly controlled. I must have looked into her eyes too long, or too directly, because she lowered her lashes so that I lost eye contact.
    “Why do you want Mr. Zell raised from the dead?” I asked.
    “Does it really matter at the rates your business manager charges for your services?”
    I nodded. “It matters.”
    She crossed her long, slender legs under the pale dress. I think she actually flashed me some thigh, but it might have just been habit, and nothing personal. “My therapist thinks that a last good-bye would help me find closure.”
    That was one of the standard reasons that I raised the dead. “I’ll need the name of your therapist.”
    Her eyes lost that mild amusement and I caught a flash of that personality that I could feel behind all the pale control. I didn’t believe her about the therapist.
    “Why do you need his name?” she asked, as she leaned back in the client chair, all elegant nonchalance.
    “It’s standard to check.” I smiled, and I could feel that it didn’t quite make it to my eyes. I could have made the effort, but I didn’t. I didn’t want her comfortable. I wanted the truth.
    She gave me a name.
    I nodded. “He’ll have to sign a waiver that he really thinks it’s a good idea for you to see your husband raised as a zombie. We’ve had a few clients who didn’t react well to it.”
    “I understand that people could be traumatized by a normal animated zombie, all rotted and awful.” She made a face, then leaned a little toward me. “But you raise zombies that look like real people. My therapist says that Chase will look like he’s alive, that he’ll even believe he’s alive at first. If that’s true then how will it be traumatic?”
    I was betting that if I called the therapist he’d back her story. Maybe it was her therapist’s confidence, but something felt wrong about her reactions. You usually saw grief even through a brave face. Either she was a sociopath or she didn’t give a damn about Chase Zell, her late husband.
    “So, I raise your late husband as a zombie that can talk and think, and you talk to him and say good-bye, is that it?”
    She smiled happily and leaned back in her chair again. “Exactly.”
    “I think you should ask one of the other animators at Animators Inc.”
    “But you’re the only one that everyone says can raise a zombie that thinks and looks and acts alive.”
    I shrugged. “There are one or two others in this country who can do it.”
    She shook her head, the expensive haircut bobbing as she moved. “No, I’ve checked. You are the only one that everyone agrees can guarantee that a zombie will be completely lifelike.”
    I had a bad thought. “What do you want your late husband to be able to do one last time, Ms. Zell?”
    “I want him to be alive one more time.”
    “Sex with a zombie, no matter how lifelike, is still considered a crime. I can’t help you do that, not legally.”
    She actually blushed under the nice makeup. “I have no intention of doing that with him