Staring at the door I can only sigh and shudder, half out of disgust and half on account of the booze from last night. Had it really come to this? Me, a dick? But there’s no denying my name on the door, painted on the wavy privacy glass: Randall Hartmin, P.I..

I’d curse myself for a fool, but that’s already been done and by plenty of men and women better than me. So, I fumble through getting the keys in the lock, a process so loud I miss the heavy footsteps on the stairs. Mistakes like that can get a guy killed in this business, but I can only hope I have time to learn.

They don’t kill you in accounting, but they will crucify you for your mistakes, take your license, reduce you to…well, I scan the dusty office and know what I’ve been reduced to. This kind of reflection and consideration is better left to those with more time on their hands.

“Mr. Hartmin, I hear you’re good with numbers,” the voice is heavy, a growl, and it’s right behind me.

Without turning all I can say is, “Not anymore.”