Chapter One

Though I didn’t know it at the time, Fate walked into the bar on Monday night in the form of Andy Flannigan.

“Usual?” I called out to the county prosecutor, holding up a cold mug.

He nodded and motioned that he’d be sitting at a table in the corner. That was odd—he always sat at the bar, unless he was with friends.

I poured Andy his favorite Harp on draft and brought it over to where he sat.

“It’s been a while,” I said as I did a quick swipe over the table with my rag, then placed the pint on a coaster I pulled from my pocket. He usually came in every week, but I hadn’t seen him in more than a month.

“Thanks, Margo,” he said. “When you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Sounds serious.”

He shrugged, didn’t elaborate.

I was curious. “Give me fifteen? Scotty will be off his break and I can take a few.” It was a quiet Monday night; I could probably take more than a few minutes.

“Thanks,” he said.

I went back to the bar, unloaded the dishwasher, checked stock. Andy was acting more serious than normal. While he was always on the calm, cool, collected side of the line, he had a great sense of humor. Fun and friendly. I’d known Andy most of my life. We’d gone to school together, though he was a couple years older than me and was still friends with my brother Jack and the group they had hung with in high school. The slight frown on his face was a bit disconcerting because Andy was definitely the least serious of the group.

I hoped there was nothing wrong with his parents, who owned the bar, Flannigan’s, where I had been working since I left the Army last year. They were in their late fifties, still worked full-time, but didn’t want to work most nights or weekends anymore. Hence, I had a pretty good gig with flexible hours. Plus, I liked beer.

By the time Scotty returned from break and I could take my fifteen minutes, nearly half an hour had passed. “Sorry,” I said when I finally sat down across from Andy. “So, what’s going on? You seem worried...and you only drank half your beer.”

“Dad said you finally got your PI license.”

I tilted my head. “Finally?”

He gave me a slight smile. “You were dragging your feet for a while.”

True. I was still dragging my feet because I didn’t know if I really wanted to be a private investigator.

“I haven’t had much business,” I said. “If you’re concerned I’m going to leave your folks high and dry, I’m not quitting anytime soon.”

“I want to hire you.”

I leaned back and must have given him an odd look because he said, “You’re not doing a very good job of acting like you want business.”

“It’s not a priority right now.”

I was in that place in my life that my mom assured me everyone goes through, though I had my doubts considering none of my siblings had ever been in limbo. I was twenty-five, had changed career paths, and didn’t know if I was doing the right thing.

The few PI cases I took were easy, and most I did for expenses only. A background check for one of my cousins who had concerns about a new hire, finding an elderly man from my grandparents’ neighborhood who had wandered off, then giving his daughter advice and help in securing the house so he didn’t do it again. Strangers had called to check my rates to prove their spouses were cheating; I declined those cases. But I took one from a high school friend who caught his wife in a lie, though she denied having an affair. We were both surprised when I uncovered that she was dealing drugs where she worked at Arizona State University.

“I trust you,” he said. “And this is...well, I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t sleep. My entire life, when I get insomnia I know what I’m doing is wrong.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“It’s not that easy. Will you just hear me out?” His eyes were puffy and shadowed. He wasn’t lying about not sleeping.

“Sure.” Maybe he just needed advice, not a PI. I gave advice freely, to the frustration of my siblings and cousins who often didn’t listen to me (but usually wished they had). Andy was practically family.

He visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t taken the case yet.”

“You will when you hear the story.”

I laughed. “When did you become a psychic?”

“You’re an Angelhart,” he said, as if that explained everything. The weight of my name wasn’t lost on me. A lot was expected from Angelharts.

Andy continued. “It’s about a nineteen-year-old kid who was arrested for armed robbery and murder. He confessed. It’s a slam dunk case. The problem? He didn’t do it.”