Gretta Sullivan refreshed her inbox like it owed her money. It paid up in spam, overdue bills, and a half-off coupon for an ergonomic chair—because even financial ruin deserved lumbar support.

  In two weeks, the only thing she’d successfully investigated was how to drink forty-three cups of free coffee from the coworking kitchenette.

  It wasn’t how she imagined detective work. But then, nothing about her life had gone the way it was supposed to. She’d wanted to be a detective since she was ten. Some kids dreamed of being astronauts. She just wanted to know what happened to her mother. It started with her. It started with a cold case that wasn’t getting warmer.

  And maybe that’s why she didn’t quite fit. A disciple of the Wild Mother, goddess of untamed things, running a PI business in a city built on steel and concrete. She should have been tracking beasts in the woods, not debtors in alleyways. But some things, some people, didn’t leave you much choice.

  She rubbed her temple. Her father had scraped together thirty grand to help her start this business. An investment, a vote of confidence—though he’d never actually said the words. His version of support had always been silent and heavy, like the way he used to sit at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a full cup of coffee that always went cold. Thirty grand sounded like a lot until training, licensing, and office setup chewed through it like a wood chipper. Now all she had left was an empty inbox and a rent bill looming like a storm cloud.

  For years after her mother left, that had been his morning routine.

  Gretta didn’t remember much from those days—just the weight of silence, the halfhearted meals, and the way her father never quite looked her in the eye, like she reminded him of something he wanted to forget. She’d learned early that parents could break, too.

  She shut her laptop with a sharp click. Sulking wouldn’t pay rent. And at this point, neither would she. A walk would help. Or at least keep her from glaring at her inbox like it had personally wronged her.

  She grabbed her empty mug, pushed back her chair, and stepped into the hallway, weaving past glass-walled offices filled with people who actually had work to do.

  The coworking space was all sleek lines and minimalist décor—an environment that practically screamed money, productivity, and overpriced software subscriptions.

  She passed an office where two professionals leaned over a MacBook that probably cost more than her rent, murmuring about IPOs and projections. A few doors down, a startup guy in a hoodie paced in front of his standing desk, headset on, muttering about “growth potential” like a mantra.

  Gretta shook her head. Some people had business plans. She had a PI license, a secondhand laptop, and an ex who still had her annotated copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon.

  She adjusted her handwritten office sign. The print shop had wanted seventy dollars for a proper one, so she’d settled for cardstock and her best attempt at straight lines.

  Then there was her office—a rented shoebox with glass walls, a secondhand desk, and an inbox so empty it could be classified as a crime scene.

  PI-for-hire. Broke. Running on sheer stubbornness.

  The kitchenette smelled like burnt ambition and old creamer. Gretta filled her mug from the industrial-sized coffee pot, watching the thin stream of overcooked caffeine splash into her cup. It smelled terrible. Perfect.

  She turned, taking a careful sip—

  And someone rounded the corner too fast.

  A solid shoulder crashed into hers, jolting her sideways. Coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding her hand.

  She hissed between her teeth, jerking back. Damn, that was hot.

  The guy who hit her—a suit-clad businessman glued to his phone—barely even flinched. Just kept walking, deep in conversation, like she was scenery that had the audacity to exist in his path.

  Gretta shook out her hand, sucking in a sharp breath. The skin was already angry and blistering, the sting deep and immediate. Annoying, but nothing serious.

  Magic stirred in her bones before she even reached for it.

  Heat faded. Pain dulled. The burn smoothed itself over, the angry red skin fading to normal. Relief came with it, but so did the familiar, nagging drain—a pull behind her eyes, like she’d stayed up an hour too late. Not enough to slow her down. But enough to remind her that magic always took something.

  She flexed her fingers. No pain. No reason to dwell on it.

  But then someone cleared their throat.

  A woman in a rose-colored dress stood a few feet away, watching her.

  Her dark eyes flicked from Gretta’s hand to her face.

  She’d seen everything.

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  The woman stepped forward, her gaze steady, thoughtful. “That was impressive.”

  Gretta rolled her shoulders, masking her reaction. “What was?”

  The woman tilted her head slightly. “A moment ago, your hand was burned.” Her eyes flicked down to Gretta’s fingers, perfectly unblemished. “Now it’s not.”

  Gretta forced a neutral expression. “It wasn’t that bad. I was just surprised.”

  The woman’s lips quirked like she found that amusing. “Right.”

  She extended a hand, her grip precise, deliberate. “Adriana Vega,” she said. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

  Gretta hesitated before shaking it. Cool fingers, practiced handshake.

  “You found me,” she said.

  Adriana nodded toward the hallway. “Sullivan Investigations. That’s you?”

  “Last I checked.”

  Adriana’s polite smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then I think I might need your help.”

  Gretta’s instincts prickled. She’d spent a year working under a licensed PI before opening her own shop, just long enough to learn the difference between a worried client and a calculated one.

  Most clients came in clutching papers, phone in hand, ready to overshare details that didn’t matter. Adriana wasn’t like that. No folder of documents, no frantic screenshots. She didn’t have the look of someone missing a person—more like someone trying to find one.

  A runaway? A deadbeat who skipped town? Plenty of PIs made rent tracking down people who owed money. Back at the firm, those cases had gone to the investigators who didn’t mind dealing with loan sharks and furious ex-landlords. Gretta had never had to decide which cases to take—until now.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asked.

  Adriana’s lips pressed together briefly. “My son, Miguel, and my granddaughter, Sofia. They’re missing.”

  Gretta stilled. That wasn’t a debt case.

  She jerked her head toward her office. “Let’s talk.”

  Gretta dropped into her chair while Adriana took the flimsy plastic seat across from her. She sat with a poise that didn’t quite match her story. No nervous energy. No frantic edge. Just calm, collected control.

  Gretta wasn’t buying it. “When did they disappear?”

  “Last night.”

  That was fast. “You called the police?”

  Adriana nodded. “I filed a report.”

  “Then where’s the Amber Alert?”

  A pause.

  “The police don’t think they were taken.”

  Gretta narrowed her eyes. “What do they think?”

  Adriana shifted, just slightly. “They're not treating it as a crime.”

  That was a lie. Or a carefully packaged version of the truth.

  “You have a copy of the report?”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t,” Adriana said smoothly. “But I can get one.”

  Gretta exhaled through her nose. Some worried family members showed up with folders full of documents—police reports, printed emails, stacks of photos. Adriana had walked in with nothing but a name.

  No notes. No missing posters. Not even a picture.

  She wasn’t disorganized. She wasn’t frantic.

  Gretta drummed her fingers against the desk, watching Adriana’s face. “You got a picture of them?”

  Adriana didn’t even blink. “Of course.” She reached into her purse, pulling out a slim wallet. After a moment of rummaging, she slipped out a photo and placed it on the desk.

  Gretta kept her expression neutral as she studied it. Standard family shot—Miguel smiling stiffly, Sofia grinning at the camera. Edges slightly worn, like it had been carried around a while. The kind of thing a mother might keep close.

  So why hadn’t she led with it?

  “You still haven’t told me why you came to me rather than a big firm,” Gretta said.

  Adriana met her gaze without flinching. “Because I was told you’re the best person for this job.”

  Gretta frowned. By who?

  Nobody had told her that. Not unless they were talking about more than just her PI skills.

  Adriana reached into her purse and pulled out a small, neatly folded stack of cash. She placed it on the desk. Gretta didn’t touch it.

  Not a lot—a couple hundred bucks at most. Not enough to get comfortable, but enough to say I’m serious. Enough to cover rent for the office. Barely. Not enough to cover rent for her apartment. Gretta tapped a knuckle against her desk, thinking.

  The money was tempting. The case was wrong. But Adriana hadn’t found her—she’d been sent. Which meant someone knew exactly what Gretta could do.

  And they wanted her to use it.

  She could say no. She should. But the moment Adriana walked through that door, she stopped being invisible. Someone knew what she was. And turning them away wouldn’t make them forget.

  She exhaled sharply and dragged the cash toward her. “You really think I’m the best shot you’ve got?”

  Adriana smiled faintly. “I think you have a better chance than anyone else.”

  Gretta’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t the same thing as an answer. She wanted to say no. Every instinct screamed that she should. Instead, she said, “Alright. I’ll take the case.”

  Adriana’s posture shifted, just slightly. A soft exhale, a tilt of her shoulders—relief. Or something close enough to pass for it.

  “Thank you, Miss Sullivan.”

  This time, it wasn’t polished. Wasn’t rehearsed. Just… real.

  Which somehow made it even harder to trust.

  Adriana stood and placed a business card on the desk. “My number,” she said. “Call when you have something.” Then, after a brief hesitation, she added, “I’m going to Miguel’s apartment. I need to see if anything was left behind.”

  Gretta tapped a knuckle against the desk. She wasn’t sure how much a second set of eyes would help, but if Miguel and Sofia had vanished overnight, it made sense to start where they lived.

  “Alright,” she said, tucking the address into her coat pocket. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Adriana’s lips pressed into something close to a smile—more acknowledgment than gratitude. She gave a single, precise nod, then turned and walked out.

  Gretta waited until the door clicked shut before letting out a slow breath. She looked down at the cash in her drawer. Then at the address Adriana had left. She could walk away. Call it a bad job. Let someone else deal with it.

  The moment Adriana walked through that door, she stopped being invisible. Gretta grabbed her coat. Rent was one thing, but this case was something else. Someone knew exactly what she was. And now, they were testing her. She didn’t like being tested.