Confusion fills her eyes, but her face doesn’t exactly move. “No, I’m looking for Mr. Hale. That you?” She looks at the nameplate on the door with my name prominently displayed.

I blink and step back, welcoming her into my office. “Oh! Yes, sorry. I didn’t have any appointments this morning, so I thought you might be lost.”

The woman comes in, looking around at my office and nodding to herself almost robotically. “I called the 800 number and they said to come by here to file a claim?”

The black clothes, the blank stare, the lack of appointment all click into focus. She’s a recent widow, probably doing her best to get through the turmoil and pain of a recent loss, and if she called the 800 number of the main insurance company, they’d send her to a local agent to complete the claim paperwork and get the initial processes started.

Fuck. This isn’t the part of my job I enjoy.

“Of course, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please, have a seat.” I direct her to the chair in front of my desk and sit down once again. “Let’s start over. I’m Blake Hale. How can I help you today?”

She blinks long, dark, dry lashes, still looking a little spacy on the whole. Unfortunately, I’ve seen worse. “I’m Yvette Horne. My husband is dead. I want to collect the money from his policy,” she says in a cold, flat tone that has the hair at the back of my neck standing up. I wonder if she’s in shock because she seems rather emotionless about the whole thing.

“Of course. Again, so sorry for your loss. I will need to ask a few questions so I can start the paperwork,” I warn gently.

This is my least favorite part of this job. Helping people plan for the future and figure out how best to care for their loved ones in case of their death is a positive way to handle the inevitable. But truly dealing with the aftermath is a minefield of painful triggers that have to be delicately handled. And there are always so many people involved that the risks of hitting one of those triggers can be high.

“Yes, of course. Anything you need to get this show on the road.”

Well, okay then. Maybe not all that delicately. I don’t want to take advantage here, but if she’s in all business mode, then I’ll use it. Opening up my company’s secure web portal, I log in and click around a bit and get to the screen I need to start a claim. “Mrs. Horne, your husband’s name, please?”

“Richard Horne, Dick.”

Uh, what? Did she just call her husband a dick? Or did she just call me a dick?

Wait, no . . . that must be his nickname. Richard . . . Dick. I hope so or this might be even more awkward than usual. “Okay. Do you have a policy number, social security number, or his birthdate?” I ask quickly. “So we can pull up the policy.”

She goes on to give me all the answers to the questions I ask, waiting patiently as I fill in every blank on the computer’s form.

But this is like no Q&A I’ve ever done. The longer it goes on, the less Mrs. Horne looks like she’s in shock and more like she’s . . . bored. She keeps looking at her phone, picking at her nails, and once, I think I see her yawn out of the corner of my eye. Then again, I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to death. Insomnia is one of them, and maybe that’s all this is.

“Do you have a copy of the certificate of death?” I ask carefully.

“What?” she replies, as though she’s completely forgotten why she’s even here or what we’re talking about. It’s expected. Everyone handles death differently. Some go numb or sink into depression, others feel relief, and a small fraction even experience a sense of vengeance, depending on the circumstances.

Mrs. Horne appears to feel none of those things. I might as well be asking about her car’s extended warranty for all the interest and care she’s showing. Again, not unseen but definitely unusual.

“The death certificate?” I ask again.

“Oh, yeah, here you go.” She pulls a piece of folded paper from between her boobs and hands it across the desk. I do not want to touch boob paper. There’s bound to be sweat, germs, and funk on it.

But I don’t keep tongs or gloves in my desk, having never needed them before. I take the paper reluctantly and spread it out on the desk, promising myself a nice, long handwash with hot water, loads of soap, and some gel hand cleanser.

I peruse the typed information in the upper fields, making sure that I’ve spelled everything correctly on my own computerized form. Everything’s good, and it’s not until I get to the bottom of the form that my own heart races.

It’s signed by Zoey Walker.

Forgetting all about the boob sweat, I trace the lines of her loopy, tightly knit handwriting and smile, which is completely inappropriate when I’m sitting across from a widow, but the fact that her name has come up again seems like a good omen after my conversation with Trey this morning.

If nothing else, it’ll be a good opener on why I’m calling . . . funny story, I met someone we have in common today.

Oh, wait, then she’ll ask who and I’ll have to say ‘a widow who gave me a Zoey Walker autographed death certificate.’ That’s not so much a funny story as a fiery red flag of caution.

Mrs. Horne’s next question ends my mental trip back into Zoey’s life. “Do you need my bank account information too? So you can transfer the money?”

“Uh, excuse me?”