A Princess of Nigh-Space By Tim Pratt
There was a business card stuck in the crack between the door and the frame when I got home from another too-long day at the office. I plucked the card out, annoyed, assuming it was some stupid advertisement, but the thick black Gothic lettering caught my eye:
Bollard and Chicane
Obstacles Removed • Burdens Shifted • Troubles Untroubled
“We Murder Problems!”
With a phone number underneath.
There was small, neat, and slanted writing on the back, in pen: “Dear Tamsin: Our condolences on the loss of your grandmother. We can help settle your estate. Call soonest.”
“Granny isn’t dead,” I said to no one, and then my phone buzzed with an incoming call.