I returned the card to the deck and replaced the whole thing in its bag. “Alright, Constance,” I said under my breath as I typed her name into the search bar. “Where are you?”

I glanced around just before hitting enter. Nobody seemed to be watching me, aside from the librarian who’d been staring a hole in my forehead since about two seconds after I walked into the library. Geesh. I didn’t even have any facial piercings anymore. Was homeless fugitive wafting off me or something?

I inconspicuously stuck my nose into my sweatshirt and gave it a sniff. Maybe.

I caught the woman’s eye and winked, gaining an inkling of amusement from watching her flustered fluttering as she moved books here and there, pretending that she hadn’t been keeping an eye on me for the past fifteen minutes. With a blink, I refocused on the computer screen and hit the enter key.

There were about a gazillion entries for Constance Ward, so I amended my search to include the word “home.” My fingers were crossed, but even with the tip-off from the good ol’ universe, my hopes weren’t high.

Which just goes to show you that I can’t predict the future, at least not without the help of my cards . . . or a pen and some paper. The first entry in the search results was an article from the Seattle Times with the headline OUROBOROS CEO HOSTS RECORD-BREAKING FUNDRAISER. Hosts? As in, throws a party at her house?

I snorted quietly. No wonder the cards suggested I start with Constance; tracking her down was going to be a breeze.

I clicked on the link and gave the article a quick skim. Apparently, Constance could throw a killer party. She’d raised over a million bucks for the Children’s Hospital at the annual gala she’d held at her lakeside home this past October in Madison Park. It wasn’t as precise as an address, but paired with the photos snapped at the event, knowing she lived in the ritzy neighborhood was almost as good as GPS coordinates.

From the images of the house—and the pool and the greenhouse and the sprawling lawn and the private dock on Lake Washington—I could tell exactly where Constance lived. It only took thirty seconds of skimming a satellite map of her neighborhood to glean her address. Not that I was an expert sleuth or anything—though after years of hunting rogue Nejerets, I didn’t suck—but there just weren’t that many private lakeside homes in Madison Park. Maybe a dozen, total, and none but hers with a huge, Victorian-style greenhouse. Ding ding ding . . . we’ve got a winner.

I jotted down the address, cleared my browser history, then closed the window and logged out. I didn’t want to risk the chance that Nosy McNoserson over at the checkout desk might use her admin privileges and do some sleuthing of her own.

I gave the librarian a cutesy finger wave as I passed the checkout desk and glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. It was a quarter till eight, fifteen minutes until the library would close. I’d found Constance’s address just in time.