I looked at the mahogany desk where the thick envelope sat.

Five million dollars a year to be a ghost in a silk dress.

I left the envelope on the desk.

I slipped through the heavy velvet curtains near the bookshelf and found the service corridor.

The smell of lemon floor wax and old copper pipes filled the narrow, dimly lit hallway.

I pushed open the heavy iron exit door, stepping out into the cold night air.

Rain was beginning to fall, dark drops splattering on the concrete.

The yellow cab was idling at the curb on Elm Street, its exhaust rising in gray plumes against the streetlights.

I got in, closed the door, and told the driver to go to the train station.

The next morning, the rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle in Boston.

Eleanor Vance’s office did not look like the glass-and-steel towers Elias owned in Manhattan.

It was located in a quiet, four-story brick townhouse in Beacon Hill.

The wood inside was dark oak, smelling of old paper, leather, and black coffee.

Eleanor sat across from me behind a desk piled high with legal briefs.