Dorian crossed the hall and opened the door, a woman in her late sixties with white hair and putting on a coat that probably cost more than most cars, stood on the step.
She looked at Dorian with eyes that were grey-green, the same grey-green, arranged in a face so familiar I had to grip the banister to stay standing, because I'd seen that face before, in a framed photograph in the upstairs hallway of this house, except in the photograph the woman had been thirty and dark-haired and very clearly alive.
"That's not possible," Dorian said. His voice had gone somewhere I'd never heard it go.
"Hello, Dorian," the woman said. "I know. I'm sorry. Let me in and I'll explain."
Dorian didn't move.
"You're dead," he said. "I stood at your grave."
"Yes," she said. "I know you did, I watched." A
