So if the Thin Blue Line was knocking, something was up, and it was big. Very big.

Why? I wrote back, and hit send.

It didn't take long to get my answer. Four minutes, to be exact, give or take a few seconds, until my cheery little you have mail chime dinged.

They need a disposable, he wrote, and this time, I sat all the way back in my chair. And rolled my chair back from the computer. Tried to talk them out of it. Told them you wouldn't want in. You can pass on it, H.

In technical terms, a disposable is a long-term resurrection—counterintuitive, but that's police parlance for you. Most resurrections last no more than a few minutes, maybe an hour—you really don't need that much time to do whatever needs to be done. It's mainly finding out the name of their killer, or where they stashed the family silver, or where the bodies are buried if your deceased soul is the one who buried them in the first place. Holding them longer is brutally hard, and gets harder the longer it goes on. When a police department requests a long-term resurrection, it's almost always specific—there's a situation that requires a particular person to resolve, or a particular skill. When the cops ask for a disposable resurrection, well, you know it's going to be bad.

I knew it better than anyone.

I typed my reply back in words as terse as Sam's had been to me. Bet your ass I'm passing.

I hit send, feeling only a little wistful twinge of regret at all that virtual money disappearing from my future, and began to shut my computer down.

I'd just picked up my purse when my cell phone rang, and I wasn't too surprised when the screen's display told me it was Sam.

"Hey," I said, shouldered my bag, and headed for the elevators. "Don't try to talk me out of it. I don't do disposables. Not anymore."

"I know that," Sam said. He had a deep, smoky voice, the kind that implied a cigarette-and-whiskey lifestyle. I didn't know that for sure; for all I knew, Sam might have lived prim as a preacher. Sam and I didn't exactly hang out; he kept himself to himself, mostly. "Not trying to talk you out of it, H, believe me. I'm glad you turned it down."

"Shut up," said a third voice, male, grim, and completely unfamiliar.

"Who the hell is that?" I blurted. "Sam—"

"Detective Daniel Prieto."

"Sam, you conferenced me?" He'd never put me on the spot before.

"Hey, they're the cops. I got no choice!"

"Hear me out." Prieto's voice rode right over Sam's. "I'm told you're the best there is, and I need the best. Besides, you have a prior relationship with the—subject."

My mouth dried up, and I stopped in midstride to lean against the wall. A few coworkers passed me and gave me curious looks; I couldn't imagine what was on my face, but it must have been both alarming and offputting. Nobody stopped. I tried to speak, but nothing was coming out of my mouth.

"Holly? You there?" That was Sam. I could still hear Prieto breathing.

"Yeah," I finally managed to say. "Who?" Not that there was really much of a question. I had a relationship with only one dead man. He was the only disposable I'd ever brought back.

And Prieto, right on cue, said, "Andrew Toland."

I felt hot and sick, and I needed to sit down. Never a chair around when you need one. I continued walking, slowly, one shoulder gliding against the wall for balance. "Sam, you can't agree to this. You can't let them do it again. Not to him."

"What can I say? I'm just the dispatcher, H. You don't want to take it on, that's just fine." The words sounded apologetic, but Sam didn't do empathy. None of us did. It didn't serve us well, in this line of work.

Cops had the same problem. "I have to tell you, if you don't agree, we're still bringing him back. It'll just be somebody else running him. You said this Carlotta is next on the list, Mr. Twist? She's the one who recommended this particular guy be brought back, right?"

"Lottie?" I blurted it out before I could stop myself. No. Oh, no. Carlotta Flores and I went back a long time, and not one minute of it was pleasant. In resurrections, we prided ourselves on detachment, but Lottie took pleasure in the pain that her resurrected souls felt; she enjoyed keeping them chained into their flesh. I'd reported her dozens of times to the review board, but there was never any real evidence. Only my own word for what I'd seen.

The dead can't testify.

It was her fondest wish to run a disposable, and it was the very last thing she should ever do. God, no. The idea of letting her handle Andrew's resurrection was more than I could take.

Detective Prieto somehow knew that, but then again, I supposed he'd done his homework. He'd probably gotten it from Sam, the chatty bastard.

"That a yes, Miss Caldwell?" Prieto asked. Sam was distinctly silent.

"Yes," I gritted out. "Dammit to hell."

"Right. Let's get to business. City morgue, Thursday at dusk, you know the drill. Come loaded, H." Sam was back to brisk and rough again, his brief moment of empathy blown away like feathers in a hurricane.

"Send me the details." I sounded resigned. I didn't feel resigned. I felt manipulated, defeated, and enraged.

"Will do," Sam said. I heard a click. Detective Prieto had signed off without bothering to say good-bye. "Better you than Lottie, I guess. Though look, if you just don't show up, what're they going to do? Arrest you?"

"They'll let Lottie do it instead. You know I can't let that happen, Sam."

"Kind of guessed, yeah."

"Why him? God, Sam—"

"Don't know. Lottie had some kind of chat with Prieto, next thing I know, he's telling me it's Toland he needs. Maybe Lottie told him about how tough the son of a bitch was. Is."

Maybe Lottie just wanted to yank my chain. Equally possible.

"Holly? Sorry about—"

"Yeah. Whatever. See you." I folded up the phone. I couldn't take any more of Sam's vaguely false apology. He knew my agreement was final. You don't become a witch making false promises. The stakes are far too high.

I must have punched the elevator buttons properly, because next thing I knew I was in the lobby, walking toward the parking garage. I couldn't feel my feet, and wherever my head was, it wasn't a good place. I went to the car on autopilot, got inside, and bent over to rest my aching, sweating forehead on the steering wheel.

My name is Holly Anne Caldwell, and I'm a licensed seventh-generation witch, with a specialty in raising the dead.

And I wished, right at this moment, that I was one of them.

I buried myself deep in prep work. It took up most of my nights, and I sleepwalked through my day job until Thursday.

Late Thursday afternoon, I went to raise the dead.

I knew the way to the morgue all too well. I had a parking pass, and the guard at the door knew me by sight. He still checked me against the list and opened up my heavy case to check the contents. All aboveboard, along with my certification papers from the State of Texas. I'd dressed professionally—a nice dark suit, very funeral home-friendly, with sensibly heeled shoes. Moderate makeup. Light perfume.

It helps, because I do run into the odd person who still believes witches come with green faces, cackling, and cauldrons.

The guard hooked me up with a temporary ID badge and escorted me back to the—excuse the phrase—guts of the morgue, which always reminded me of a large-scale industrial kitchen, with all the chrome work surfaces and sharp instruments neatly arrayed on racks. Once there, he checked with the coroner's assistant, then backtracked me to a room that was normally used for family viewings. Nobody had bothered to dress it out for this occasion, so there was a certain creepy sterility to it that unsettled me.

Detective Prieto unsettled me, too. He was about my father's age, stern and possessed of one stony expression as far as I could tell. He didn't like me, and he didn't like what he was doing. He gave me the paperwork, I read and signed, and he checked all my credentials again before leaving the room to stand in the viewing area.