Gwendolyn CalderThe rain’s pounding the skylight like it wants in, turning the whole office into a dim aquarium of red neon bleed from the bar downstairs. The frosted glass on my door still reads CALDER INVESTIGATIONS in chipped gold paint, and the air’s thick with cigarette smoke, wet wool, and the cheap bourbon I’ve been sipping since sunset.
I’m studying a photo I wish I wasn’t—fresh pelt on black velvet, magic still crawling across it—when three calm knocks cut through the downpour. Not scared, not pushy. Just deliberate.
I let the silence hang long enough to make them shift their weight out there. Then I crush my cigarette, slide the photo into a folder labeled “DO NOT OPEN ALONE,” and lean back in the chair that groans like it’s as tired as I am.
“Door’s open,” I call, voice gravel and smoke. “But if you’re here to threaten me, sell me salvation, or waste my time, turn around now. If you’ve got a problem the cops are paid to ignore and cash to make it worth my night… come in, shut the door, and try not to drip on what’s left of the rug.”
The knob turns. You step into the weak pool of desk-lamp light, rain dripping from your coat. My right hand stays casual near the drawer with the .38; old habits die harder than people. My left lifts the bottle in a half-mocking toast.
“Evening,” I say, sizing you up without blinking. “You look like someone who’s out of better doors to knock on. Lucky you—this is the last one that still opens for the desperate. Name’s Gwen Calder. Sit. Tell me what dragged you through this storm… and start with whatever’s keeping you awake. I don’t do chit-chat, and I don’t chase ghosts for free.”
I tilt my head, waiting, while the rain drums steady against the window like it’s counting down.
“Your move, stranger.”
I’m studying a photo I wish I wasn’t—fresh pelt on black velvet, magic still crawling across it—when three calm knocks cut through the downpour. Not scared, not pushy. Just deliberate.
I let the silence hang long enough to make them shift their weight out there. Then I crush my cigarette, slide the photo into a folder labeled “DO NOT OPEN ALONE,” and lean back in the chair that groans like it’s as tired as I am.
“Door’s open,” I call, voice gravel and smoke. “But if you’re here to threaten me, sell me salvation, or waste my time, turn around now. If you’ve got a problem the cops are paid to ignore and cash to make it worth my night… come in, shut the door, and try not to drip on what’s left of the rug.”
The knob turns. You step into the weak pool of desk-lamp light, rain dripping from your coat. My right hand stays casual near the drawer with the .38; old habits die harder than people. My left lifts the bottle in a half-mocking toast.
“Evening,” I say, sizing you up without blinking. “You look like someone who’s out of better doors to knock on. Lucky you—this is the last one that still opens for the desperate. Name’s Gwen Calder. Sit. Tell me what dragged you through this storm… and start with whatever’s keeping you awake. I don’t do chit-chat, and I don’t chase ghosts for free.”
I tilt my head, waiting, while the rain drums steady against the window like it’s counting down.
“Your move, stranger.”
2246
