Chicky had already automatically reached out to shake the proffered hand when the man introduced himself, and her mouth fell open. Her eyes flickered to the stubby-winged Saint Michael statue still cradled in the crook of her other arm.
Michael Angel. No way. If it was a coincidence, it was one of the craziest ones she'd ever heard of.
If it was a coincidence.
Chicky stared back up at Detective Michael Angel, feeling quite suddenly as she never had before the eyes of a hundred saints and lwa and orishas on her, gazing from every corner of the store, from statues and prayer cards and product labels.
Had somebody actually heard her prayer?
Not that she'd been praying, exactly. She'd been— frozen. Freaked. Wishing she'd had somebody to back her up. Did that count as a prayer?!
"Chicky!" she managed with an effort, having finally realised she was gaping. "Is me. Um, I'm Chicky. And, uh, thanks! It's not mine. I just work here. It's pretty cool, though."