I had never been unhappier.

At this point, I would have taken just about any job. Another long, dejected look around my room didn’t do me any favors. The fluorescent light overhead was flickering, another corner of hideous green and orange wallpaper had come free, and, as I turned, my office chair almost toppled over. In the black of the humming computer screen in front of me, my reflection wasn’t even angry, just sad.

There was no point in asking myself how I’d gotten here, because I knew all too well. The date was marked on the calendar that was dangling precariously from a nail in the wall. It was back in January, on the page with Sherlock Holmes on his feet and ready for action, his iconic hat set on his head and his pipe at the ready. Below him, on the first square for January 1^st, there it was: move-in day.

It had been a symbolic move-in day for a symbolic feat.

After six years in the business, I had finally gotten my own office, my own place. I was no longer going to work from home anymore; I’d made it. Sure, the only place I had been able to afford had been a crappy second-floor bathroom of a room, but I had just been starting out, just building my business; it had just been a stepping stone. Who would’ve thought it would have come to this? A stepping stone to bankruptcy? A few months’ worth of no jobs?

I cast my glare toward the foggy, spider-webbed window, past which, across the street, busy men in nice, clear windows worked unceasingly. “Private Investigations Boulder,” the sign below them read. Maybe in a few months I’d be there in one of those windows, working for the very company whose job offer I had refused a month ago. I took another look around my office and sighed. Sure, working for a company would mean a loss of freedom and independence, but at least I’d have something to do.

Checking my email on my computer only confirmed what I knew already: no emails, no jobs, nothing. It had been like this since Private Investigations Boulder had set up shop across the street—even getting a sit-down with a potential client didn’t mean much these days.

My computer screen reflection tucked a piece of hair behind its ear self-consciously.

Maybe I just needed a haircut, some glasses, something. A blue-eyed blonde wasn’t exactly what anyone would call promising detective material. And yet, I had proven myself, hadn’t I?

My gaze went to my corkboard, where my previous successes hung proud: the Donatti family shaking my hand, their olive faces bright with smiles after I found their missing inheritance; Jenna Baker’s surly frown, a nice contrast to the Baker family’s faces when I showed up with their missing daughter in tow; then, near the bottom, with a pin stabbed through its tail, Miss Murple’s unimpressed-looking fat tabby, Oscar, my proudest achievement of all. Nabbing Oscar’s burglar had been no small feat. The bent-over, gangly man had run, tabby blob in hands, for blocks before he finally gave up and handed the poor yowling thing over.

And yet, what difference had that made? My gaze fell to my phone, the ugly old taupe thing that I couldn’t remember hearing ring in the past week, or even month for that matter.

The difference all my past accomplishments had made was not much. No, not much difference now that I was stuck here in this cramped box with nothing to do but regret not accepting the job offer from the very company that was putting me out of business.

In fact, my previous successes were proving to be more useless than I had even thought. In the beginning, I’d taken the difficulties in stride, assuming my lack of experience and being a woman were obstacles that would be overcome with time. This, however, proved not to be the case. Despite my experience, no one took me seriously as a private investigator. It was one thing to be a woman, but it was another thing to be a blond, blue-eyed, young-looking one who smiled too much and had a high, uncertain voice.

Yes, my appearance certainly wasn’t helping, as my two latest interviews had shown. In the first one last week, the shawled old woman and suited old man had taken one look at me as I’d opened the door before flying off, mumbling some unlikely story about a detective mix-up. In the second one a few days ago, a sour-faced pair of sisters had only pretended to give me a chance, drilling me with such ridiculous questions that when they marched out there, high and mighty with their rejection of my suitability, I was actually relieved.

My gaze rose to the smiley-faced clock on the wall beside me, which was grinning mockery at me. Five p.m.

I threw my pen at it, though the cheap blue thing just bounced off the glass and then onto the carpet below.

If Mom had known how that stupid, cartoon, black-and-white, smiling thing would mock me, reminding me of every new day that passed with fewer and fewer clients and less hope for a better future, she would’ve never bought it for me.

But she’d had no idea how badly this would all go. Hell, I’d had no idea either.

And yet now here I was, once again staring at the ironic reminder of my failure. Another day gone, and I’d done nothing but lost some rounds of chess to a computer, reread Critical Mass for the fifth time, and prayed, hoped, longed for a client, for anything.

The sound of knocking on the door surprised me so much that I almost fell off my chair.

And yet, even as I rose, the three sharp knocks were repeated, one after another, perfectly in time. When I opened the door, the man had his pale, skeletal hand crumpled into another knock position, prepared for three more knocks, presumably.

“Are you Alex Combs?” his high-pitched voice asked.

I stared at him. My mind was so busy processing what it was seeing that it couldn’t come up with anything to say yet. White hair, yellow teeth, aquiline nose, hollowed-out face—this man looked more like a movie villain than anything. His hooded, gray, lifeless eyes weren’t helping either. He had no wrinkles to indicate his age however, except for a strangely prominent crease in the middle of his forehead.

“Are you?” His high, cold voice snapped me back to life.

I nodded dumbly.

“Yeah. I…that’s me.”

He eyeballed me dubiously, his liquid gaze rolling over my try-hard black and navy business suit, then my hopelessly blond hair.

“Come in,” I said before he could run away.

I opened the door, and, at the sight of my dismal little office, his doubtful expression became downright disappointed.

“You have worked in the industry…for a while?” he asked.

“Yes.” I flopped into my chair, making the thing almost fall over altogether.

I gestured to the mauve-cushioned wooden chair which he only stared at.

This was my first client in months; I couldn’t mess this up!

I jumped up, and the words flew out of my mouth. “Okay, here’s the deal. Those guys over there—Private Investigations—I can tell you right now, they can give you a better rate and more guys working on your case.”

The man squinted at me as if trying to see if I was joking.

I took another deep breath and plowed on. “But they don’t have what I do: six years of experience in the field, a passion that keeps me working on cases until the wee hours of the morning, and a doggedness that doesn’t stop until it gets results.”

He was still staring at me, his face unmoved.

“I know I don’t look like much,” I said, “but I can promise you this: I will work until your case is solved or you can have your money back. You have my word.”

At this, his eyebrows raised and stayed raised. Then he took a sweeping look around the room that ended on me. Abruptly, he slid into the chair.

“You have my attention,” he said.

I collapsed back onto my own chair, trying not to look as relieved as I felt.

“So, tell me a bit about yourself,” I said. “What is it you’d like looked into?”

“I’m Russell Snow. I’m trying to track down someone dangerous. Very dangerous. Really, an unhinged criminal.”

He searched my face for a reaction that I tried not to give. If he saw just what I was thinking, he might have left entirely. Why was this guy coming to me instead of the police for help with finding a so-called “unhinged criminal”?

“Okay,” I said.

He continued. “His name is Brock Anderson. I want evidence of his criminal activities so I can hand him over to the police.”

Each statement was a smooth sliding-out of syllables, after which his gaze scanned my face for their absorption. Finally, he finished up with, “So that’s your job. Follow him and get evidence.”

I nodded.

“Those ‘private investigators’ across the street were useless. What about you?”

He scanned my face, and I scanned his.

With that white hair and unsettling face, the name Russell Snow fit. It fit too well, I’d say. It was probably fake. There was something off about this request, this guy, all of it, and yet I was in no position to refuse any job.

“Okay,” I found myself saying. “I’ll do it. Just tell me what to look for and I’ll get to work. What evidence should I be on the lookout for?”

A half smile slid onto his lips and then fell.

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

My next scan of his face revealed nothing; it was lowered, focused on his phone as he texted. He was apparently under the impression that he had told me enough, when really he had basically given me nothing to go off.

“So what about you? What is your relation to this case, this Brock Anderson? Can you give me anything else to go off?”

He didn’t look up from his phone, only shook his head and said “no.”

Right, now this guy was getting on my nerves.

“And my fees, $50 an hour, you’re okay with that?” I said, and he nodded and waved a bony hand in an unconcerned figure eight.

“Won’t be a problem. I’ll pay $2,000 at least, more if it takes longer.”

And then he sat there, texting away, forgetting me entirely. As if he hadn’t just made an insanely lavish offer.

I stood up.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr.…Snow. I will get to work on your case immediately and give you updates on my progress every few days.”

I held out my hand, but he only glanced up, nodded again, and then, after a good minute more of texting, rose and shook it.

“Work business” was his explanation before sweeping away.

At the door, he paused and grabbed my hand again.

“Miss Combs. Can’t stress discretion enough. We’ll be in touch.”

I found myself yanking my hand out of his iron, cold grasp. Then he was gone, leaving an even worse feeling behind him, an insidious uneasiness.

I watched him glide down the hallway and disappear down the stairs.

What had I gotten myself into?