TITLE: SHADES OF AMETHYST
It all started with a penny.
When the elevator doors went their separate ways, I stepped out, and it bounced off my head and jumped into my black suede bag.
Cascading waterfalls of light fell across the marble walls of the Chicago Chronicle as I looked for the source. I shielded my eyes from the penetrating October sun and scanned the lobby.
Nothing above but empty space, so I knew I was the target.
You can't get much clearer than a knock on the noggin, but what message were the spirits sending me?
I fished through my bag and pulled out the penny. Flipped it over, as I always did, and checked the date. The year I was born. From my experience that could only mean one thing.
It might seem strange to some people that a reporter for Chicago's north side paper believed in silly things like superstitions. Or pennies from heaven. Especially since I’ve dedicated my adult life to fact-checking and truth-seeking, no matter where it lead. And in this town, it could lead straight to the morgue. But those people never met my Irish grandmother.
Grandma Geraghty insists everyone call her Birdie, short for Brighid, Celtic goddess of fire and hearth. The name means 'one who exalts herself' and, well, let's just say that it suits her.
I pocketed the penny and crossed the lobby floor, headed for the revolving doors and a much-needed coffee break when Bruce Springsteen started shouting out Thunder Road.