Gretta Sullivan reclined in her brown pleather chair, holding up her last-year-model phone and watching a TikTok video of a raccoon pawing at a jar of peanut butter. Her glass cubicle was scrunched between a long hall of identical cubicles in a modern coworking space. Overhead, the fluorescent lights softly hummed and buzzed. A neatly hand-lettered paper sign on her door read, "Sullivan Investigations." Besides her laptop, a dirty coffee mug, and a phone charger, her office was bare of accessories or decorations.

She’d been in business for two weeks, and her greatest accomplishment was drinking 43 cups of free coffee from the cafeteria in those fourteen days. Considering that four of those days were on the weekend, she was starting to think her caffeine vice was getting out of control.

Gretta woke up her computer to see if she had any new business. She scrolled through dozens of spam emails. Some were traditional requests to help an Arabian prince who needed a quick loan. Other emails suggested that single women were only one click away! Clearly, spammers didn’t know which team she played for. The last group of emails urgently needed her to confirm her username, Social Security number, birthday, and password to check her bank account.

Business was not booming. She had a website, ran ads online and on social media, was listed in a popular business review platform, appeared in a national directory for investigators, and even tried more traditional advertising. But the only sound her phone had made was a raccoon chittering.

Gretta watched the clock on her phone flip from 4:59 pm to  5:00 pm. Quitting time. She stood up, letting the chair slide back until it bounced off the back wall. Nobody was coming today. 

She grabbed her empty coffee mug, slipped out of her office, and marched toward the shared kitchenette. As she marched, the sharp, acrid tang of burnt popcorn hit her nose, growing stronger with each step. It mingled unpleasantly with the faint chemical lemon scent of the industrial cleaner someone had used on the countertops, creating a uniquely stomach-turning aroma. 

Gretta clenched her jaw. Her dad had lent her $30,000 to start this business, and now she wondered if she could afford the first month’s rent for the office and her apartment. She was all but tapped out after licensing fees, training, insurance, bonds, software, and a computer. She was brand new to the business but was certain she could succeed if anybody gave her a chance. After all, she had something that no other PI she knew had: magic! 

Not that she could advertise her magical ability. Anybody with a lick of sense knew that the FBI had a special division dedicated to finding magic users. And she was more powerful than your average sorcerer, but she couldn’t take on the US government. If they caught wind of her, she’d likely be conscripted into service or part of some lab experiment. The last time magic users tried to come into the light was right before the Inquisition, and we all saw how well that turned out. 

The kitchenette was empty, save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the corner. The microwave’s green numbers blinked impatiently, flashing “00:00,” while the charred stench of popcorn clung heavily to the air, making her nose wrinkle. She glared at the dull, eggshell-white walls that would almost certainly absorb the smell.

She slipped her dirty mug into the community dishwasher and then turned to the microwave.

She caught her reflection in the glass: disheveled blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles. So many freckles.

She shook her head and opened the microwave. A blackened bag of popcorn still smoldered.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“This is a public space,” a man said from behind her.

Gretta turned around and looked at the man, confirming that she was the only one present whom he might be talking to.

He glowered at her. “Between microwaving popcorn and fish, your making this shared space was less pleasant.”

“This isn’t mine,” she said, stepping away from the open microwave.

He raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you taking it?”

“I wasn’t taking it. I was just worried that it was on fire.”

He strode forward, his polished leather shoes squeaking faintly against the tiled floor, and snatched the scorched bag of popcorn from the microwave with an exaggerated flair. Holding it aloft like a piece of damning evidence, he jabbed a finger at the smudged instructions on the side of the package. “Two to three minutes, depending on wattage,” he recited. “Clearly, you should have started with two.”

Gretta noticed a lady frozen halfway down the hall. The man was facing Gretta and away from the lady, who slowly turned around and started shuffling away. Gretta sighed.

The man turned on the faucet, ran the bag under the water for a few seconds, and then finally tossed the soaked popcorn in the trash. Gretta watched, speechless. 

He gave Gretta another appraising look. “I get it. I was young once, too, and it’s easy to forget that you aren’t the only one who works here, but I will have to report you if this keeps up.”

Gretta’s face turned red. “It wasn’t me.”

The man shook his head and walked away, but Gretta was sure she could hear him muttering about people too young to take responsibility for their actions. 

She whispered an ancient word of chaos and felt the zing of magic flow through her hand to the man’s shoes. The laces came undone. 

She whispered another ancient word, this one of orde. Another tingle of magic danced out from her fingers, and the laces of the man’s different shoes became entangled in a perfect knot. A moment later, the man was falling, but Gretta didn’t wait to see him land. She was already turning around.

“Clearly, you should have been more careful,” she whispered.

Gretta stomped back toward her office. She needed to grab her laptop and get out of there. Even though it was minor, the fatigue from casting two spells mingled with the more significant fatigue of a day spent doing nothing and the stress of impending bills.

Down the hall, an older Latina woman peered into Gretta’s office. She wore a long rose-hued dress and carried a cream-colored handbag over one shoulder. Her dark hair, pulled back in a tight bun, had streaks of gray. Though her face was lined with age, her posture was as steady and upright as a soldier’s. Her dark eyes scanned the office with quiet intensity.

Gretta’s heart sped up. Was this her first customer? She didn’t want to get her hopes up too high, as the last time someone was at her office door, a man just wanted to ask if she knew where the kitchenette was. 

She quickly checked to ensure her shirt did not have coffee stains and then said, “Welcome to Sullivan Investigations! How may I help you?”

The woman gave a start and then turned. “Oh, thank goodness I caught you! I was worried you had gone home for the day.”

Gretta smiled warmly and approached, holding out her hand to shake. “I’m Gretta Sullivan.”

The woman’s eyes flicked down to Gretta’s outstretched hand, lingering for a beat too long before she reached out. Her grip was light and precise, her cool fingers clasping Gretta’s palm with the faintest pressure, as if handling a delicate artifact. The touch sent a sudden jolt up Gretta’s arm, sharp and electric; the unmistakable tingle of magic brushed against her own.

The woman gave her a knowing look. “I’m Adriana Vega, and I need your help.”

Gretta held the door, and Adriana stepped in, taking a seat on the flimsy plastic chair in front of Gretta’s desk. Gretta shut the door, then walked around her desk and sat down. “Please, tell me what’s brought you in.”

“My granddaughter and son are missing, and considering your… skills, I believe you have the best chance of finding them.”