Chapter 1: Fate on the Table

A woman's astrology chart sits in front of me, the kind you might pull up on a horoscope app or see on a trendy Instagram feed. I glance at the birth details, and my mind kicks into gear: a wild mix of power and peril, shaky finances but a survivor’s grit, a streak of fire-sign beauty burning through her fate, and hidden dangers lurking below the surface. This woman’s in deep trouble…

The chart practically begs to be solved, like a cosmic Sudoku. I tap my fingers on the printout, the faded coffee ring on the corner making the whole thing feel more urgent and real. The background hum of the café fades as my thoughts start to spiral. Then, a sharp jolt of anxiety slices through me—hold on—am I the one in trouble right now?

My name’s Autumn Granger. I’m a screenwriter, and today I’m supposed to be meeting a producer. But instead of a script, she slides a woman’s star chart across the table.

I shift in my seat, scanning the hip downtown café. Espresso and burnt caramel perfume the air. The producer, Savannah Torres, is stunning—one of those people who looks like she stepped out of a magazine. She tracked me down because she’d heard about my “cases.” It took me a second to realize she wasn’t talking about my failed crime dramas, but about my real side gig: exorcisms and ghost hunting.

I’m always careful with spells—how did she find out about my other life?

Normally, I’d shut this down fast. But looking at the chart, I see the owner’s in a “traveling disaster and passionate entanglement” phase—astrology-speak for ‘don’t travel far, and watch out for messy love affairs’—risking both money and her own safety. I warn Savannah, “Honestly, if I were her, I’d skip traveling this year—especially to the southeast. But look, I’m not some psychic hotline. Maybe find someone else?”

I lean forward, dropping my voice so only Savannah can hear. “Seriously, Savannah, I don’t touch life-and-death stuff. That’s just bad news.”

Savannah shakes her head. “No need for that. She’s already a thousand miles away. In the southeast.”

She stares at the chart, her voice steady but her eyes flickering with worry. “I brought you here to find out if she’s alive or dead.”

She says it like she’s asking about tomorrow’s weather, but the way her fingers drum on the table tells me she’s barely holding it together.