“Are you the psychic?”

Fox’s bored gray eyes rolled up and looked across the smoky room at the young woman who had entered. He looked her up and down, then sat down his book and took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. “That’s what it says on the door.”

She marched over and shoved her palm into his face. “I’m Hillary McCallister.” Just from the way she walked Fox knew that he wasn’t going to like the woman. She reeked of money. He took her hand and shook it limply, but said nothing. Hillary cleared her throat expectantly and Fox put the cigarette back in his mouth. “You are Fox Caprio, are you not?”

He met her eyes then. She had flipped the ‘r’ in his name, the original Italian pronunciation. He wondered if it had been a guess, or something more.

“Yeah,” he took the cigarette out of his mouth again. “I’m Fox. What do you want Hillary?”
“Mrs. McCallister.” She quickly corrected him.
“Mrs. McCallister. What do you want?”

“I believe you can help me.”

He raised an eyebrow.