Angel was not what I’d expected—which would have been a tall, blonde, well-toned female who looked like she could take down Godzilla. She showed up at my apartment without any warning the next morning. After she verbally identified herself, I cautiously opened the door. A rather plain woman stood there, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had the picture of a bone on it with the words I found this humerus. Her hair was dish-water blond, pulled back in a tight bun, and to top it off, she wore glasses.
I must have looked appalled, or stunned, because she laughed. “Remember, you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, Zane,” she said when I stepped aside to let her in. “Though I guess I should be calling you Wayne. Right?”
“Only if we’re in public.”
“Okay.” She looked around then said s
