I’d never seen the resurrected before. My line of work occasionally brought me into contact with people on the other side of the equation—the dead or the nearly so. Certainly, the damned. But never someone who had endured what Grace Dillingham had. Never someone who had come back from a grave. I remembered the picture a friend at the police department had shown me—the one the kidnapper had sent her family. She certainly looked dead. But, like a lot of things in life, the truth was more complicated than it seemed. A tuxedo-clad maître d’ led me to Grace’s table