Fate's Edge by Ilona Andrews
To Anastasia and Helen
Acknowledgments
Fate’s Edge was a fun book to write, but even the fun books take a lot of work. We’re grateful to Anne Sowards for continuing to edit us and to Nancy Yost, our agent, for continuing to represent us despite our best efforts to drive them both to an insane asylum.
We’d like to thank the following people for making the book a reality: production editor Michelle Kasper and assistant production editor Andromeda Macri for bringing it all together, editorial assistant Kat Sherbo for heroically dealing with our ornery e-mails and keeping us on schedule, artist Victoria Vebell and cover designer Annette Fiore DeFex for creating a gorgeous cover, interior designer Kristin del Rosario for making the book look beautiful between the covers, copy editors Sara and Bob Schwager for making sure the narrative was consistent, and publicists Rosanne Romanello and Brady McReynolds for tirelessly promoting the book.
Special thanks go out to Deric Gant for his knowledge of scripture and charismatic preachers. We’d also like to thank Jill Myles, Meljean Brook, and Jeaniene Frost for many hours of e-mail and phone therapy. We’d also like to thank Jessie Mihalik for helping us move to Texas and find this awesome house, where most of the book was written. We’d like to thank each other for being very patient and avoiding divorce despite the AC breaking three times in triple-digit summer heat.
Finally, we’d like to thank our readers for following our stories.
PROLOGUE
IF she had only one word to describe Dominic Milano, it would be “unflappable,” Audrey Callahan reflected. Stocky, hard, balding—he looked like he had just walked out of central casting after successfully landing the role of “bulldog-jawed older detective.” He owned Milano Investigations, and under his supervision, the firm ran like clockwork. No emergency rattled Dominic. He never raised his voice. Nothing knocked him off his stride. Before moving to the Pacific Northwest, he’d retired from the Miami Police Department with more than a thousand homicide cases under his belt. He’d been there and done that, so nothing surprised him.
That was why watching his furry eyebrows creep up on his forehead was so satisfying.
Dominic plucked the top photograph from the stack on his desk. In it, Spenser “Spense” Bailey jogged down the street. The next shot showed Spense bending over. The next one caught him in a classic baseball-pitch pose, right leg raised, leaning back, a tennis ball in his fingers. Which would be fine and dandy, except that according to his doctor, Spense suffered from a herniated disk in his spine. He was restocking a warehouse when a walk-behind forklift got away from him, and the accident caused him constant, excruciating pain. He could frequently be seen limping around the neighborhood with a cane or a walker. He needed help to get into a car, and he couldn’t drive because the injured disk pinched the nerve in his right leg.
Dominic glanced at Audrey. “These are great. We’ve been following this guy for weeks, and nothing. How did you get these?”
“A very short tennis skirt. He hobbles past a tennis court every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to his physical-therapy sessions.” The hardest part was hitting the ball so it would fly over the tall fence. A loud gasp and a run with an extra bounce in her step, and she had him. “Keep looking. It gets better.”
Dominic flipped through the stack. The next photo showed Spense with a goofy grin on his face carrying two cups of coffee, maneuvering between tables at Starbucks with the grace of a deer.
“You bought him coffee?” Dominic’s eyebrows crawled a little higher.
“Of course not. He bought me coffee. And a fruit salad.” Audrey grinned.
“You really enjoy doing this, don’t you?” Dominic reflected.
She nodded. “He’s a liar and a cheat, who’s been out of work for months on the company’s dime.” And he thought he was so smart. He was practically begging to be cut down to size, and she had just the right pruning shears. Chop-chop.
Dominic moved the coffee picture aside and stopped. “Is this what I think this is?”
The next image showed Spense grasping a man in a warm-up suit from behind and tossing him backward over his head onto a mat.
“That would be Spense demonstrating a German suplex for me.” Audrey gave him a bright smile. “Apparently he’s an amateur MMA fighter. He goes to do his physical therapy on the first floor, and, after the session is over, he walks up the stairs to spar.”
Dominic put his hands together and sighed.
Something was wrong. She leaned back. “Suddenly you don’t seem happy.”
Dominic grimaced. “I look at you, and I’m confused. People who do the best in our line of work are unremarkable. They look just like anyone else, and they’re easily forgettable, so suspects don’t pay attention to them. They have some law-enforcement experience, usually at least some college. You’re too pretty, your hair is too red, your eyes are too big, you laugh too loud, and, according to your transcripts, you barely graduated from high school.”
Warning sirens wailed in her head. Dominic required proof of high-school graduation before employment, so she brought him both her diploma and her senior-year transcript. For some reason, he had bothered to pull her file and review the contents. Her driver’s license was first-rate because it was real. Her birth certificate and her high-school record would pass a cursory inspection, but if he dug any deeper, he’d find smoke. And if he took her fingerprints, he would find criminal records in two states.