The Broken Hearts Agency

by Clarence A. Haynes

Genres: Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

In a spicy, contemporary fantasy novel, private investigator Linda Villanueva runs a detective agency for troubled couples using her mystical powers—all while wrestling with her own heart.

AN EVIL FORCE IS FEASTING ON DESIRE ... 

Evelyn Kendricks is having a day. An overworked manager, she’s been dumped by her toxic boyfriend while struggling to cope with the recent ghost invasion that’s shocked the world. Devastated, she is mysteriously summoned to an eerie townhouse where she meets Linda Villaneuva, a private investigator who runs a secret mystical detective agency. She’s able to sense the emotions of others, especially those suffering from heartache. 

Linda would like nothing more than to help her latest client, but she soon makes a gruesome discovery: People are losing their memories and wandering DC streets in a zombie-like daze. Their eyes, demon red. Their skin, blistered, burning … and no one understands why. 

Panic has begun to consume the city as more folks succumb, putting Evelyn and other residents at risk. In the biggest case of her life, Linda follows a trail of clues to unearth an evil force far deadlier than anything she could’ve imagined. And all the while, she must reckon with the tragedies of her past and the price she’s paid for her supernatural gifts. 

A layered urban fantasy that serves up steamy romance, titillating mystery, and otherworldly horror, The Broken Hearts Agency is the latest page-turner from the acclaimed author of The Ghosts of Gwendolyn Montgomery.

Release date: June 23, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 256

Sample

Evelyn Kendricks knew it was going to be a rough morning when personal propaganda failed.

“Girl, you got this,” she muttered to her reflection in the large vanity above the ladies’ room sink. “You… got… this.”

As an advertising firm, Mtume Visions claimed a type of Black excellence that not only informed the quality of the campaigns they created for the world but encompassed its DC headquarters. Which meant that everything, including its four employee restrooms, had to look fabulous. Cleaned twice daily, designed to resemble art deco lounges from the Harlem Renaissance, some staff liked to hang out in the bathrooms so they could enjoy plush ambiance.

“I’m takin’ my ass to the Renaissance…” The running joke for months, a line folks spat out when they had to use the facilities or simply be out of sight from the boss. The portrait of Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes that hung over employees’ heads as they reclined on a leather settee? The large poster of Fire!! magazine’s debut issue next to the paper towel dispenser? All suggested by Evelyn, to build upon the company’s cultural cachet. Mtume’s youngest star was dedicated to creating perfect scenes, even in lavatories.

Evelyn was usually on the go, never used the restroom to chill like her peers, though she would take a few seconds to check in with herself after handling her business. Today, she placed her palms on the restroom’s porcelain counter and welcomed the jolt she got from the ice-cold surface. She whispered affirmations to her reflection. It was futile. Her impromptu pep talk wasn’t working.

This isn’t good, she thought, if she was already starting to drag despite having two cups of coffee. The dark circles under her eyes, telling. Evelyn had risen at 5 a.m., responded to more than two dozen emails, commuted to the office via Metro, reviewed final contract details for several accounts, coordinated catering for tomorrow’s intern breakfast, and sent out a cosmetics brand mailing. Now she had to attend her agency’s first meeting regarding its new paranormal initiative.

I’m actually about to have a meeting on how to market ghosts, she thought right before she left the bathroom and stepped into a conference space, where she greeted several of her colleagues. With New York City wrecked by evil spirits just under a month ago in what the press had dubbed the Ghost Equinox, everyone had spooky shit on the brain. The big question: Could something like that happen in DC? Mtume’s managing director, Fitzroy Baxter, not one to ignore opportunity, had decreed at the company’s weekly staff meeting there were fresh markets to explore. “A whole new world!” he belted out like the second coming of Peabo and then privately asked Evelyn to join a committee that would research the ghostly world. Though she hadn’t attended services in eons, Evelyn considered herself a church girl. So taking part in some initiative dealing with spirits? Nope, no thank you, not for her.

“We need someone with a pioneering vision to handle this, someone not stuck in old ways,” Fitzroy said, taking in her hesitation. His breath reeked of cigars, as usual. “And you’re the crème de la crème among our young account managers.” Evelyn nodded and went along with the plan despite her reservations. What she always did, even though she wanted to reply that dealing with ghosts would sully Mtume’s reputation.

She sat straight and silent during the committee meeting, more observer than participant, before she jumped in with the spark of an idea. “Why don’t we align ourselves with the Rebuild NYC Initiative?” she offered. “It’s super popular. Identify some appropriate IPs who’d like the brand recognition, who’d also be down to donate money to help out the city.” Nothing controversial there, as she was concerned about companies who wouldn’t want to be involved in mystical mumbo jumbo mess.

To her relief, most of her coworkers understood that they needed to do significant research on the ghostly world before making any moves. As soon as the meeting ended, Evelyn dashed over to her cubicle and breathed through her anxiety. What she experienced whenever the subject of spirits came up. She could barely bring herself to look at the images of a jacked-up New York that had flooded the internet for weeks. Impossible, gruesome sights. A sky turning bloodred. Explosions, shattered windows. Folks floating in midair, attacked by flying scissors and knives. She didn’t want to believe any of that mess had really happened no matter what people had captured on video, no matter what she saw repeatedly online, no matter what the news now seemed to regard as fact. She refused to believe. And yet she was going to dive into that world because of her job. She already noticed how some coworkers were pulling up images of the invasion on their computers and playing those god-awful clips, some of which were accompanied by REBUILD NYC banners. Made her sick to her stomach. Like something creepy and dark had started to befoul her sparkling Mtume space.

Evelyn spotted Kent as he approached her cubicle. Kent was so tall that when she was sitting down, for a split second he blocked out some of the office lights. A walking eclipse, his own celestial system. He noticed Evelyn, gave a tiny wave, and kept on. This was how it had been for days now, since he’d ended things between them. She noticed how their coworkers avoided her or made their small talk very small. Evelyn, the not so proud recipient of collective office pity after being dumped.

Her thoughts were jumbled, scattered. Unacceptable. She prided herself in keeping her stuff in order 24/7, on maintaining a quiet unflappability that had brought her far, from rough beginnings in Baltimore to Howard University, where she graduated magna cum laude. After working for a tech startup, she landed a media assistant position at a local ad agency before Mtume snapped her up, which allowed her to leave roomies behind and rent a studio apartment close to U Street. Within a few years, she’d earned a promotion to account manager.

She’d established a reputation for being both meticulous and out of the box with her campaigns. For encouraging Mtume to think big, to align itself with IPs that her managers thought out of reach. A year ago, she became the company’s lifesaver when the smoothie empire Ripe Dreams threatened to pull their business after another account manager presented a campaign color treatment that reminded the CEO of clotted Pepto-Bismol. When Evelyn told the company head in her chipper, girlish voice, “Forget Bismol, think Barbie,” soon securing a multimillion-dollar tie-in deal, all was forgiven.

Success came at a cost. Her apartment, practically empty, Evelyn unable to find the time to spruce it up with anything outside of basic furniture. And as for fashion, it was a never-ending journey to find a look that suited her. She still had nightmares about when she wore an ivory faux fur stole with matching hat and suit to the company’s holiday party. I look like Dominique Deveraux’s discarded stepchild, she thought when she saw herself in a group photo, mortified.

There were missteps, yes. But she was on the right track. All she needed to complete the picture was someone like Kent Armstrong, a svelte, suited-up DC transplant from Houston who’d started working at Mtume soon after she did. His Southern charm was subtle, accented by manicured caramel hands and a sharp flat top. (“Well ain’t you the second coming of Big Daddy Kane,” the office receptionist Chyna once declared as he sauntered past her desk.) Evelyn realized he might be interested after Kent suggested they go out to dinner at a vegan spot one evening after working late.

“Go out with him again,” her friend Deirdre had advised over coffee when Evelyn wondered if she should pursue anything. Dinner with Kent was lovely, the two having an easygoing banter as they gossiped about work drama. Though Evelyn was concerned first and foremost about job fraternization, Deirdre, a corporate attorney and Delta who eventually forgave her friend for never pledging, didn’t see a problem. “Be discreet. Review your human resources policies. Neither one of you are each other’s superior, so dating is probably fine.”

Evelyn soon ghosted the other men she’d been talking to and focused on Kent. His presence, a balm to the anxiety that sometimes plagued her soul and flesh. It was easy to get close when so much of their time was consumed by the job, to blend the professional and personal, to support each other.

Or at least that was the idea. When Kent said he was tired or overwhelmed, Evelyn took over his projects and worked overtime to get them to the finish line. Their dating, an open secret in the office. “We’re so proud of you, Evie,” Fitzroy proclaimed to her in his executive suite with every successful project that she and Kent completed, as if he understood that she was the one behind Kent’s success.

Perfect, Evelyn told herself when they received compliments from associates and strangers alike, the young power couple that captured people’s attention around hangout spots at Adams Morgan or H Street and on the feeds. A millennial–Gen Z credit to the race, part of Black and bright DC. What she’d yearned for since her Howard days. Ambitious, voluptuous Evelyn… the circle. Debonair, lean Kent… the line. As if they were the stars of a shiny campaign she’d masterminded.

The parts of the campaign not so shiny? Best ignored. Kent never once helped Evelyn with her own accounts, even when she battled COVID-19, even when she worked sixteen hours a day for two weeks while he was on a family cruise. He never advocated for Evelyn to get a raise when they realized he had a higher salary though she brought far more business to the company. And when it came to intimacy, the more left unsaid, the better. Some women sized Kent up and gave Evelyn the look that said, Mm… I see what you working with. Little did they know that Kent was a man of modest dimensions who preferred sex only on weekends, his place, no lights, his hand on Evelyn’s shoulders accompanied by three minutes of clumsy thrusting and language—“my tight pus-saaaaaay biiiiiiiiiiitch”… “my big tit-taaaaay hoooooooo”—that he would never utter in the light of day. She folded within herself during their encounters, shook it off. Every relationship had its challenges.

After almost eight months of dating, Kent sat down with Evelyn in her cubicle one afternoon and told her he thought that they should end things, that he needed to figure out what he really wanted. “Our time together was great,” he said before he took her hands in his palms. His touch, a surprise. They’d made it their business to never show affection at Mtume. “But there are better guys out there for you.”

Evelyn nodded, too numb to fully comprehend what was happening. Why… did he end things in the office? she wondered, slowly realizing that it was so she wouldn’t make a scene. Her existence since the breakup was that of a composed, contained worker bee who had to pretend like everything was okay, like she hadn’t bawled her eyes out every night in her apartment when Kent ignored her texts and calls.

Now, watching him walk away, Evelyn went on autopilot. The day had become much too much. She didn’t want to think about Kent or Fitzroy or paranormal initiatives… or anything. She skipped lunch, completed all her tasks for the day, and left at five on the dot. She ignored Chyna’s “toodle-oo” goodbye and made her usual short walk from office lobby to Metro.

Evelyn soon stepped onto the Green Line train that arrived at L’Enfant Plaza and maneuvered around a disheveled man with a salt-and-pepper beard. Drenched in sweat, he stood immobile on the platform as the doors opened. His eyes looked strange, weirdly vacant. The man’s light brown cheeks were sunken, arms limp. His khakis were dirty, torn at the knee. A mass of rush hour commuters swarmed around him. He didn’t move.

She sucked her teeth, not in the mood to deal with a wacko tripping on drugs. She hustled over to a corner seat on the train. The blue rubber upholstery clung to her legs, made her feel like a sticky, dirty thing. Evelyn closed her eyes, tried to ignore the heaviness that pressed against her body, the way her shoulders drooped, the tightness in her jaw. The feelings she experienced when life became too overwhelming. She would sometimes find her escape through work, which right now wasn’t an option.

After a short ride, she got off at U Street and zoned out on the escalator ride that took her outside. The sun was still bright as folks made their way home or headed out for food and drinks. Her mouth began to water as the aroma of half smokes wafted over from Ben’s Chili Bowl down the street. A reminder of when she ate where she wanted, how she wanted, before she’d taken on board Kent ’s obsession with bland meal kits that claimed to reduce inflammation and bloat. The last time she’d been inside Ben’s, on one of her dates with Trevor. Sweet, resourceful Trevor.

Evelyn wondered what he was up to, the public radio podcaster who she’d met while perusing the self-help section at Politics and Prose. Trevor, a fellow B-more native who always wanted to go to a concert or try out different restaurants, who found a way to treat her to drinks or dinner even with a limited budget. Who would throw down and cook for her unprompted, who prepared braised ribs and chicken and cobbed corn while they watched legal dramas or rom-coms at his place. Who once, when they were eating barbeque, took Evelyn’s saucy fingers, placed them in his mouth, and licked them clean, his tongue a twisting snake that flicked in and out. The gesture so unexpected, so intimate, that it caused all sorts of sensations that left her feeling… not like herself.

The next day, she decided to focus on Kent exclusively.

The wisps of half smoke left Evelyn as she strolled past the eatery and walked under the awning of the Lincoln Theatre. She glanced back at the sidewalk mural of Harriet Tubman in a green cloak holding a lantern above an afroed Prince, the Obamas to his right, all smiles, encircled by the American flag. She glimpsed the True Reformer Building across the street on Twelfth with its mural of a somber Duke Ellington flanked by piano keys. The art and its connection to U Street history usually gave Evelyn a surge of pride and confidence. Today, nothing.

She reached Vinnie’s Vintage, a local secondhand clothing boutique, and saw herself reflected in the store’s large glass window. She was supposed to be all glowed up with her bobbed wig and teal suit a size too small and black stilettos that were torture on her arches.

Evelyn stopped and looked at herself. Really looked at herself in the clear glass, as if she were in front of Renaissance mirrors. The truth too clear.

Kent had gotten with her based on what she could do for him. Had slept with her because she would help him get promoted, would put his projects before her own. What she could finally admit because she couldn’t do the mental gymnastics anymore. She was too tired.

Their relationship had been a total lie. Like so many of her other campaigns.

Shit.

Evelyn clutched her handbag and tucked in her chin as tears filled her eyes. She was going to break down, felt like she might crumple to the street right then and there. She had to get home and be a wreck in private. She made a right onto Fifteenth Street. A town house entered her line of sight. It was nestled off the sidewalk in the alleyway that appeared a few feet before Sixteenth. The brick exterior, the richest, deepest sienna she’d ever beheld.

Everything else in the world turned gray. Dead and lifeless, silent. The city’s evening noise disappeared. But the town house, its brightness remained, its color so rich and inviting that it somehow held sound. A soft, steady hum. A woman’s whispering voice. The words were indecipherable but also gentle, firm. Sound that lifted the fatigue from Evelyn’s shoulders. Something about the voice promised safety, which she needed so very much.

Home felt too out of reach, too far away.

Evelyn wiped sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse. She drew closer, walked up the town house’s narrow steps. To the left of its entrance, in golden letters, NUEVA INVESTIGATIONS. Underneath, WELCOME.

The whispers continued, soothing, beckoning. Yes, she’d be okay if she could get inside. Safe and okay. Evelyn looked for a buzzer or knocker, only to find nothing, just a thick wooden door covered in gleaming white paint. Beautiful.

She stopped, breathed, placed her hand against the door, pushed it open.

The hum enveloped her, as did a sense of relief. She passed through the foyer and entered a sprawling space set up as a living room. The air was breezy, cool. A large velvet couch was covered in rust-and-mustard pillows. The aroma of soap and sandalwood all around her, thick, a tad cloying.

She walked deeper into the space. Portraiture adorned the walls. A jumble of hues and textures that blurred. Evelyn grew dizzy and closed her eyes. The smell of sandalwood was overpowering. Then it hit her, the scent, so like her grandmother’s drugstore perfume. Grandmama, who passed away when Evelyn was seven, who used to sit with her for hours as the little girl arranged the old woman’s glued-up figurines into a grand porcelain court. Who would tell her, “Look what you can do, little girl.”

An ache bloomed in Evelyn’s body in the middle of the town house. Tears brimmed. She hadn’t thought about her grandmother for a long time.

What was she thinking? She’d made a mistake. Was crazy, walking into somebody’s house she didn’t know unannounced. Was actually out of her damn mind.

Evelyn opened her eyes, vision blurry, ready to make a beeline for the door. She took in the art on the wall, zoomed in on a watercolor of a thorny forest. In its center stood a scowling, gnarled man pointing at her with a crooked finger. An impossibly long finger. The face, for a moment, looked like her grandfather. She peered closer.

The man was Kent. An ancient, warped Kent, as if he’d aged sixty years overnight. He was stooped, no longer able to reach the sky, no longer an eclipse. His misshapen, droopy limbs covered in melting flesh. Foul, old.

She stepped closer to the portrait. There beneath him was another person, an elderly woman. Evelyn gasped. It was her, senescent and stooped.

The image of Kent moved, ready to pounce upon the woman in the painting. Evelyn lurched back.

She wiped her eyes and blinked hard.

“Hello.”

The voice was gentle and firm and feminine. The whispers, the in. . .