Gretta Sullivan took a slow sip of coffee—actual, honest-to-gods good coffee from a coffee shop—and savored it.

  Six months ago, she’d been drinking something scorched and bitter from the coworking kitchenette, wondering exactly how many cups counted as abusing free refills.

  She leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders as she mentally checked off the list of things Rowan had promised to handle—and absolutely hadn’t.

  Deposit checks at the bank. Nope. Pick up business cards and new sign for the door from the print shop. Definitely not. Grab groceries for the apartment? Not likely.

  She set her pen down and glanced at the door. The taped-up paper sign was starting to curl at the edges.

  Her eyes dropped to her notepad—and she frowned. The feather a kid had given her was tucked neatly against the spiral binding. That kid, Sofia Vega, had been central to Gretta’s first case as an independent PI. The kid lived. Her father… Gretta shook her head at the memory.

  The raven feather was one of Rowan’s, which Sofia had clung to while in the heart of magic and at the center of a ritual that would have cost her mind and body. After Sofia was safe, she gave that token to Gretta in thanks.

  She could've sworn she'd left the feather on the kitchen counter—or was it her jacket pocket? Either way, its persistent reappearances were starting to get irritating. She rolled her eyes at attributing powers to a beat up feather.

  “Hey, Miss Sullivan?”

  Gretta snapped to attention and looked up. It was the kid from the front desk—Jared or Jordan or something equally forgettable. He lingered awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stick around or leave. Escorting visitors directly wasn’t standard practice here, and Gretta caught the nervous flick of his gaze between her and a man she didn’t know.

  “Yeah?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Your next appointment is here,” he said, giving her an apologetic look.

  Gretta frowned. She didn’t have another appointment today.

  The man standing in the doorway was almost distractingly polished.

  Handsome, sharp, angular—but in a subtle way, not flashy. He was lean without seeming fragile, dark hair effortlessly casual, suit crisp and immaculate without appearing overly expensive. He radiated quiet confidence, an easy calm that made it hard not to immediately trust him. She caught the whiff of a faint floral scent.

  “Miss Sullivan,” he said warmly, stepping just inside. Behind him, Jared—or Jordan, whatever his name was—lingered awkwardly. He clearly wasn’t used to personally escorting guests back. “I hope you don’t mind. Jordan offered to walk me in.”

  Jordan—right, that was it—flashed her an apologetic glance, clearly unsure if he'd done the right thing. She gave him a small nod, and he retreated gratefully.

  “Not interrupting,” she replied, setting down her coffee. “But I wasn’t expecting anyone else today.”

  The man inclined his head in polite apology. “I know. But my problem couldn't wait.”

  Gretta tilted her head slightly. “Let me guess. Something’s missing.”

  He smiled, faintly amused. “Precisely. Books, in fact.”

  “Stolen?” she asked automatically.

  “Perhaps misplaced,” he said carefully. “I'd simply like them found.”

  Gretta studied him closely. His gaze remained steady—not invasive or calculating, just curious and patient. He didn't scan her office like other clients usually did. He simply held eye contact, calm and direct, comfortable in silence.

  Then his eyes dropped briefly, noticing her notepad.

  “That's an interesting keepsake,” he remarked lightly.

  Gretta snapped the pad shut, hiding the feather from view. “Just a feather,” she said tersely, annoyed at herself for reacting.

  He smiled again, gentle and disarming. “A feather can mean good luck. Perhaps yours is working?”

  She chose not to comment. “Books go missing all the time,” she said instead. “What makes yours special?”

  He smiled, amused by the bluntness. “They vanish consistently. Exactly one book each month for the past three months.”

  Gretta raised an eyebrow. “Stolen?”

  “I prefer 'unaccounted for.'” He shrugged gracefully. “I suppose theft is possible.”

  He wasn’t panicking or angry, but he also didn’t seem indifferent. Instead, he seemed intrigued by the mystery—as if this were an interesting puzzle rather than lost inventory cutting into profits.

  “And you are?” she asked, pen poised.

  “Dorian,” he said, placing a business card carefully on her desk. “I run Ever After Books.”

  A fairy-tale-themed bookstore. Of course.

  “Do you know where they're disappearing?” she asked.

  “Somewhere during the delivery.” He watched her thoughtfully. “The shipments originate from New York, but the missing books seem to vanish after they arrive here in Tucson.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “You have documentation showing exactly what's missing?” Gretta asked, leaning forward.

  He nodded, smoothly pulling a slim, clearly high-end laptop from an equally slim case and opening it with practiced ease. He tapped a few keys, turning the screen toward her.

  The records were impeccably organized—original shipment manifests from New York paired neatly with the signed delivery receipts from Tucson. Gretta immediately spotted discrepancies highlighted in tidy digital handwriting: each shipment listed a book that never appeared on the signed receipt, clearly missing upon arrival.

  Oddly enough, the missing titles weren't consistently valuable. Some were rare first editions, while others were obscure, inexpensive volumes hardly worth the trouble of stealing.

  Gretta leaned back thoughtfully. “Always the same courier?”

  Gretta paused, pen hovering. “Do you know anyone at Blue Star Express? Any contacts?”

  Dorian considered briefly, tapping one elegant finger against his knee. “Their delivery driver wears a name tag—Aaron… Blake, I believe.”

  She noted the detail carefully, making a mental reminder to verify the driver herself. Nothing obviously suspicious—but clients sometimes glossed over details or provided second-hand information they assumed was accurate. She trusted her own verification more.

  Dorian closed the laptop.

  Gretta leaned back, thoughtful. “You haven't contacted Blue Star yourself?”

  His smile was patient, almost apologetic. “They’ve already given me vague reassurances.”

  Fair enough. Clients often turned to a PI after hitting bureaucratic walls.

  Gretta tapped her pen lightly against her notepad, regarding him silently for a moment. Polished, composed, reliable. The kind of man who followed through, who made things seem effortless. Nothing like Rowan, whose constant distractions left Gretta juggling both their responsibilities.

  She sighed softly, then nodded decisively. “Alright. I’ll take the case.”

  His smile widened, pleased but unsurprised. “Excellent.”

  Dorian withdrew a slim leather wallet and placed a business card precisely on her desk. Heavy stock, raised gold lettering—too fancy for Tucson, but elegant rather than pretentious. A minor detail stood out as she watched his hand pull back—his skin was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Not just his hands, but his face. He didn’t have a single birthmark or blemish.

  “I appreciate you looking into this,” he said, standing smoothly. “It's not urgent, but sooner is preferable.”

  Gretta smirked lightly, tapping her pen against her palm. “Patient people don’t usually hire PIs.”

  His lips twitched with genuine amusement. “Patience is easier when you already know the ending.”

  The phrasing itched at her—but maybe bookstore owners were just naturally eccentric.

  As he stood, he adjusted his cufflinks with practiced ease before glancing back. “Perhaps we could discuss it further—over dinner?”

  She hesitated.

  He caught her uncertainty immediately, lifting one hand gently. “Purely professional, of course. I've found discussing details casually can reveal things paperwork cannot.”

  That made sense. She’d solved more than one case over a shared meal, clients relaxing just enough to reveal crucial details. And truthfully, after days of Rowan’s absence, dinner with someone focused and reliable sounded appealing.

  “I'll think about it,” she said, carefully neutral.

  “Of course.” He nodded graciously. “The invitation stands.”

  Gretta watched him leave, annoyed at her suddenly uneven pulse. She was a professional, not some schoolgirl getting flustered over a client.

  She shook her head and exhaled slowly.

  She left cowork space a few minutes later, after finishing her coffee and locking up her personal office space.

  The sun was dipping toward the horizon, but the air still shimmered above the asphalt, thick with the smell of hot pavement and distant mesquite smoke.

  She slid her sunglasses on and walked toward her car—freshly washed and miraculously dust-free. If that wasn’t proof her luck had changed, nothing was.

  Six months ago, wasting money on a car wash would’ve felt absurd. Filling the gas tank before the low-fuel light blinked would’ve seemed extravagant.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat, wincing at the wave of trapped heat before cranking the AC. Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat—a voicemail notification from the print shop.

  She exhaled through her nose, beyond annoyance at this point, resigned to the small disappointments that came with Rowan’s distracted presence.

  Her eyes fell briefly on the prepaid phone she'd bought for him, lying forgotten on the passenger seat. No messages. No missed calls. She doubted Rowan even remembered she gave it to him.

  What grated on her nerves was knowing she could reach him instantly if she really needed to. A quick mental focus—a whispered prayer—was all it would take. But Gretta Sullivan didn’t pray to trickster gods. Especially not trickster gods who didn’t bring her coffee.

  She turned onto the main road, merging into the sluggish evening traffic.

  Better things to focus on—like a strangely compelling bookstore owner.

  Gretta drummed her fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel. Tomorrow’s first stop would be Blue Star. For tonight, she was going home.

  She parked in her usual spot at the apartment complex, her clean car absurdly out of place between an abandoned truck and a sedan with a cracked windshield.

  She turned off the engine and sat quietly for a moment, trying to clear her mind. Dorian’s calm, composed face lingered, as did the odd details of his case. Shaking her head, she grabbed Rowan’s prepaid phone from the seat and jammed it into her coat pocket—more out of habit than hope of giving it to him.

  She climbed the stairs slowly, pausing outside her apartment door. Rowan’s shoes weren’t sitting there—a bad sign. Where did he keep disappearing to? Trickster gods are so effing unreliable!

  She stepped inside and stopped short.

  The apartment was a disaster.

  Laundry draped over the couch, junk mail piled high on the kitchen counter, and takeout containers stacked precariously near the sink.

  She flicked on the kitchen light and opened the fridge.

  Two eggs, half a carton of questionable takeout rice, and pickles. Fantastic.

  She shut the fridge and turned toward the counter—then stopped short.

  The feather sat there, perfectly centered, as if placed deliberately.

  A cold prickle ran down her spine.

  “Alright,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “That’s enough of that.”

  She grabbed the feather, slammed it into a drawer, and willed herself not to think about it.

  “No milk, no bread, no creamer, and definitely no coffee,” she muttered. “Thanks, partner.”

  She closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, feeling suddenly exhausted.

  She weighed praying to him. He wasn’t her god. He was the guy that left crumbs on the couch. Unreliable, sloppy, and gone.

  She pulled out her phone and looked at it. What was the harm of a dinner? She pulled out Dorian’s card and entered the number.

  Barely a full ring. He answered, his voice calm and warm. “Miss Sullivan.”

  Gretta pushed away the nagging doubt in the back of her mind, steadying her voice. “I changed my mind. Dinner sounds good.”