The rain had begun to fall over Haven City, a cold, relentless drizzle that blurred the neon signs of the Financial District into smudges of red and blue. Inside the car, the silence was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers. Clara Lynn sat in the passenger seat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She looked out the window at the passing city, but Conrad Stone knew she wasn't seeing the lights. She was seeing the face of a dead man.
"He was so young, Conrad," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "Maybe thirty. He had a tattoo on his forearm—a hawk. When I was prepping him, I didn't think about who he was or what he did. I just saw a patient. Now, all I see is a ghost."
Conrad kept his eyes on th
