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bangs fell over your eyes and you pushed them to the side. I knew I had only that moment to make peace or you’d be gone for good.
    â€œCan we start over?” I said, my own warmth surprising me. “You don’t have any time to waste. Let me help you.”
    â€œNo thanks, I prefer dealing with human beings.”
    â€œI could halve my commission,” I heard myself say. “Five percent instead of ten.”
    Your brow softened, but your voice remained harsh. “What does that matter when I need double the offer you predicted?”
    â€œI have an idea.” I put my elbows on my faux wood desk and steepled my fingers.
    â€œWhat,” you said, “fake my own terminal illness?”
    â€œYeah, right. Would you buy a house without an inspection?”
    â€œWhat then?” Your tone was sarcastic, but I had your attention.
    â€œYour said your mother has hereditary breast cancer.”
    â€œYeah. A mutation on BRCA1.”
    â€œHave you thought about what that means for you?”
    â€œI don’t want to know,” you said quickly. “This isn’t the time for me to worry about myself.”
    â€œWhat if I told you I could more than double your payout if you have the same mutation? The higher your risk, the better.”
    Your mouth twisted into a scowl. “This is a screwed-up business.”
    â€œMy ex-wife would agree. But I’m helping people out of very tight spots. It’s win-win.” I leaned back in my cushy leather chair, knowing you were hooked—even if you didn’t know it yet.
    â€œBut if I have the gene, then I have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life. I can’t un-know it.”
    â€œIs that too high a price to pay for your mother’s life?”
    Your green eyes narrowed. “And what if I don’t have it?”
    â€œFirst get tested. Come back as soon as you know the results.”
    A queasy look crossed your face, but you nodded and stepped out without another word.
    Despite your mother, I hoped for your sake that the news was good. After you left, I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out my scrapbook of newspaper obituaries. It was bound in handsome brown leather with gold trim, a fitting record to commemorate my past clients. I liked to read their life stories, to remember that I had helped them in their final months or years, so my self-loathing wasn’t totally justified. But most of all, I liked to remind myself that I knew better than to get attached to anyone who was mortal.

CHAPTER 3
    Joan
    5 months, 2 weeks before, New York
    Â 
    J oan Hughes felt her husband’s dry lips brush against her forehead. She pulled the goose-down comforter up to her chin and kept her eyes closed against the early morning sun. He was standing beside the bed in a navy suit, his briefcase slung over his shoulder.
    â€œHave a good day,” he whispered.
    She murmured something inaudible into her pillow, burying her face so it wouldn’t give her away. Underneath the covers, the sheet was sweaty where she was gripping it. His dress shoes clomped over the wood floor out into the living room, through the foyer, out the front door. It closed behind him and she heard his key turn in the lock.
    Her eyes snapped open. In one fluid gesture, she threw off the comforter and jumped to the floor. She was already dressed, having risen at 4 A.M. to throw on her secret new clothes: hot pink nylon shorts, a sports bra, and a hot pink tank top. She hated the color, but it was well hidden underneath her long-sleeved black nightgown. Now she yanked its silky fabric over her head, kicked her feet into sneakers, and pinned her short blond curls into a Yankees baseball cap she’d bought the day before. She also hated the Yankees. Flying out the front door, she caught sight of her outfit in the hall mirror. It was revolting. Revoltingly perfect.
    She rode the express elevator down twenty-five floors and hurried through