Page 2 of Fated By Fire

When the Universe delivers, it does it in spades.

The sender’s address is encrypted, ending [email protected], but when I type it into my browser, the page 404s.

Dammit.I spend a few minutes Googling but come up empty. Doesn’t bother me, though. I didn’t become a private investigator for nothing.

The landlord picks that moment to thump the ceiling with his broom.“Rent’s due tomorrow, Ross!”

I flip him off, though he can’t see me. “All right, all right, I heard you the first time, dammit!”

Gee-zuz!

The door slams open, the figure framed in the door frame not bothering to announce herself. Why would she? Mara Jones has been my best friend since high school. She knows as much about my world as I do. Maybe more because there were a couple of tequila-fueled evenings that I don’t remember, but she does.

Now, she swaggers in with a grease-stained taco bag and enough energy to power downtown Seattle. Her t-shirt says“I’d Call the Cops, But You’re Cuter”above a cartoon UFO. She’s always wearing some kind of weird shit like that.

“Elena Ross! You reek of desperation,” she says, tossing me a carne asada taco. “Let me guess—landlord’s upgraded to death threats?”

“I don’t reek of any such thing.” I jerk my head at the screen where the email is still open. “And he can’t scare me. I just got a gig.”

“Yeah?” She slumps into the faded blue velvet sofa angled in the center of the living room. “Big enough for you to pay the rent on this palace?” She casts a look around my cluttered apartment.

“This palace…andan actual office,” I say, pushing a heap of papers across my battered desk to make room for my meal. I don’t care about getting oil on them. They’re just bills, anyhow.

“Sounds fancy. Who’s it for?”

“Can’t tell you. Client confidentiality.” I take a mouthful of grease and carbs.

“Fuck off. You tell me everything. And if you don’t say it now, you’ll tell me later when you hit a blank and need my help.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Go on. When has that ever happened?”

“Okay, never. But one day, that ‘intuition’ of yours might run dry. Spit it out.”

“Craven Industries,” I say around a mouthful of food. “Someone wants me to do a little digging.”

Mara freezes mid-bite. “The‘we patent orphan tears’company? The same Craven that somehowisn’tin prison for that dodgy deal in the Ukraine?”

“Client’s paying way over my rate.” I turn the laptop around to face her. Mara rises from her seat and heads over to the desk.

“Because it’s a trap. Last journalist who dug into them? Poof. Ghosted harder than my Tinderella dates.” She squints atthe screen. “Also, ‘Blackthorn Consulting’? Sounds like a D-list supervillain LLC.”

“They mentioned Mom.” My voice cracks.Weak. I clear my throat.

“Fuck. Low blow.” Mara snorts, but her eyes soften. She knows I still call hospitals twice a year, asking if a Lila Ross with a crescent moon scar on her wrist ever turned up.

Filthy Secret About Mara:She called those hospitals first, pretending to be me after I got wasted on tequila last May. She’ll never admit it.

“So, how does your mom factor in?” She flicks a wave of neon blue hair out of her face.

“That’s what I’m gonna find out,” I tell her. “While I’m raking in their 20k deposit.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Her eyes are wide.

I give a nod. “Unless it’s a scam.”

Shit. What if it’s a scam?

“So, what’s the job?” Mara asks. “Corporate espionage? Some exec screwing around on his wife?”

---