“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?”