Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations used to be housed in a cramped spare bedroom, and we hadn’t dignified it with anything as formal as a name. It had been something to talk about in bed, late at night, how one day Paige would be able to quit her Web design business, I’d stop taking on commercial legal piecework and we’d run our legal-cum-investigative firm helping supernaturals full time, from an actual office. Now, some days, I walked around to the front door just to see the business name and reassure myself it was real.

Five years ago, I’d been a new lawyer, unemployed, no fixed address, chasing cases of injustice—and usually getting the door slammed in my face. No one slammed it harder than one infuriating, stubborn and absolutely bewitching young woman determined to protect her ward from the Cabals without any sorcerer’s help. I’d gotten the case, though. And gotten the girl.

As I opened the door to the second floor, the smell of coffee hit me. I paused, still holding the door handle. No one should be here. Paige was at an appointment. Savannah and Adam were in Seattle, doing legwork for a case.

A pot left on the burner would mean burnt coffee, but this smelled fresh. Had Paige returned early? I smiled as I pulled off my jacket. Then I remembered the empty parking lot. If Paige’s car wasn’t here, neither was she.

I moved cautiously to the kitchenette door. A man stood at the coffeemaker, his back to me. His Rolex caught the light as his fingertips tapped the reservoir, waiting for the machine to finish brewing. He’d look at home in any financial district—the tailored designer dress shirt, pressed pants, polished leather loafers. Perfectly groomed, not a lock of dark hair out of place, not a shaving nick or rough patch to be seen. A man easily discounted as a soft urban professional. Just as one might presume that I’d caught him unawares.

I waited. He took two upside-down mugs from the shelf and flipped them over.

“Cream?” he asked without turning. “Sugar?”

“Black.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself.”

“Not at all. I hope you don’t mind if I ask for a refund on your work designing our security system.”

Karl turned and flashed me a smile that could, despite the cliché, best be termed wolfish. “What kind of thief would I be if I can’t break into a system I created? But if anyone else manages to do so, you’re entitled to your money back.” He filled the cups. “Or you would be, had you paid for my services.”

“I tried to pay. You insisted on doing it pro bono. In return, one presumes, for some future favor. If you’d like, I can cut you a check right now.”

“No, thank you.”