Kristine Kahill -

She lived in a bungalow on a cul-de-sac in a town called Murphysboro, a place that existed only on maps and in the memories of people who’d left. The lawn was unremarkable. The mailbox was gray. The car in the driveway was a sensible sedan, five years old, washed twice a month. If you drove past Kristine Kahill’s house, you would not remember it. That was the point.

"It never is," Kristine said dryly. "But I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about your pride. If I take this case, I own you. You will do exactly what I say, when I say it. You will destroy your personal phone. You will fire your assistant—she leaks information. You will break up with your girlfriend—she talks too much to her mother. You will become a ghost until I say otherwise." kristine kahill

Kristine Kahill first learned to be invisible in the summer she turned nine. Her father had left a month prior, taking his jazz records and the smell of coffee with him. Her mother sat in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes and staring at the empty second chair. Kristine, small and quick as a sparrow, learned to step softly, to close doors without a click, to slide her dinner plate into the sink before anyone could ask if she’d eaten. She lived in a bungalow on a cul-de-sac