Page 1 of Fated By Fire
Chapter 1
Elena
Rain pelts the windows of my loft like someone’s throwing gravel. The hiss of old pipes mixes with the needle scratch of a Miles Davis record drifting up from the vinyl shop downstairs.
I’m studiously ignoring the letter in front of me. It’s the landlord’sthirdeviction notice this month, the paper creased under a mug that reads“World’s Okayest Detective.”The irony tastes like my four-hour-old coffee.
God, Lennie. You’re really pushing the envelope this time.
I slump back in my chair, and the seat groans. I hate feeling this way. Like I’m facing being homeless. I wish this damn “adulting” crap would get easier already.
“I’ll get it right eventually, Mom. I promise,” I sigh. My mother’s Polaroid stares at me from the corkboard on the wall—me at eight, clutching her waist, her smile frayed at the edges. She’d been working late for weeks before she left for her nightshift and never came home. The note she left me was taped to the fridge:“Be good. Mac and cheese in the freezer.”
Social services found me two days later, eating cold noodles with my fingers, Mom’s earphones clamped to my head, Christina Aguilera blaring. I still can’t listen toBeautifulwithout curling into a fetal position.
My laptop screen burns a hole in the dark room. My last shred of dignity is a rejection email for a skip-tracing gig that could have set me up with regular income for six months. They didn’t like my resume. Apparently, fingerprinting cheating spouses doesn’t count as “relevant experience.” But what was I supposed to do? Tell them that I found my last missing person after seeing them in a dream?
Yeah, that would go down well.
I let out a low groan that turns into a growl as I scroll through the Help Wanted ads. Even a waitressing job would help right now.
“Oh, come on, Universe! Throw me a bone, would ya?”
A ping cuts through the rain. I click open my email, not expecting much more than yet another newsletter urging me to pay a thousand bucks for a self-help course I don’t want. Because right now, I think I’m beyond any kind of help. Plus, I don’t have a thousand bucks.
Subject: Surveillance Assignment
I perk up immediately.
Hello! This looks promising.
The email is two lines:
Ms. Ross,
Require your special skills to investigate dealings at Craven Industries. Assignment to be ongoing with remuneration based on findings. Will a $20k deposit suffice?
My jaw drops open.
Twenty thousand dollars? I lean in closer to the screen, blinking a few times to make sure I’m not reading the number wrong.
$20k.
Twenty-freaking-thousand dollars!
Holy fucking shitballs!
I read the mail a few more times. Then I frown as I read the closing line, which is just a vague salutation with an initial.
B.
It’s the postscript that delivers a sucker punch, though:
P.S. Your mother knew the significance of this assignment.
Mom?
What the hell? What could she possibly have to do with this? My chest tightens. Twenty years since child services dragged me out of that apartment, and not a single lead—and now this.
