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Shelly Eisenhäutchen I don’t believe in omens, signs, or portents. As a literary agent, I go off feel, off vibes, and let me tell you, this girl was a basketful of just-washed, fluff-dried puppies. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Hair in a little ash-blonde bob with faint freckles stippling the bridge of her tiny Rockwellian nose. She reminded me of a happier Tatum O’Neal in Paper Moon , even down to the cute rasp in her voice. As a personal assistant, she was everything I was looking for. Indeed, even her name, Kit Perkin, seemed almost too good to be true. Beneath