The front door opened. No, it crashed open, hitting the door stop with a bang.

This was no SEAL team coming through my lobby. Instead, it was a different kind of wrecking crew, all contained within a five-foot-five woman with sandy blonde hair. Like any special ops team, she had a mission, and her objective was apparently my office.

Of course, my first line of defense--my so-called receptionist, Liz—would be AWOL, again. I didn’t trust Liz much, and for good reason. My seven different receptionists over the past five years had all proved interchangeable, women on the losing end of a divorce, boasting long dossiers of cheating to their names. So could I trust Liz to keep me insulated from salesmen or this gate-crashing spitfire striding through my office door in her three-inch heels? Of course not.

I looked up from my client billings and immediately recognized that the anger in her eyes, an expression born of hurt. Had it been hate or malice, a quick reach for my revolver might have been prudent. After all, she had no appointment. Not that walk-ins are unwelcome in my line of work, but invasions? Most decidedly not.

You see, my outgoing invoices were for services rendered, and for one of the most disagreeable kinds of services possible. After all, nobody said the life of a private investigator was honorable. But someone has to draw back curtains, to bring unsavory truths into the light of day. While I won’t ever be the richest person out there, I do okay. And if my morals were on par with the people I investigate, I would be a wealthy person indeed.

Enough about me. Back to the woman now standing with crossed arms before my desk. Nice looking, polished, the type who would look at home in a Junior League meeting. A skirt, blouse, and shoes that were upscale but not showy. A tasteful necklace. A diamond in her wedding band the size of a peanut.

In short, a look that practically shouted of old money, prudently invested. What one would wear for errands once her couple of kids were safely dropped off at school. And, given how she was now staring into me, that errand for the day seemed to involve me. I decided to be cautious.

“Yes?”

“Are you any good?” Not going to lie. Her abruptness startled me.

“I’d like to think so.”

“Good. You’re hired. Read this.” With that, she slammed an envelope down on top of my paperwork. The force of the impact rattled my empty coffee cup. A nearby pencil rolled off the side of my desk and dropped to the floor.

I recognized the stationery as from one of my better clients, Dewer and Hoors’ Attorneys at Law. A mostly reputable law firm, or at least as seemly as divorce attorneys can be. D&H were steady customers, so I made sure my work for them was beyond reproach. A quick scan of the addressee’s name on the envelope.