Any Detective Claiming She Hasn’t Ventured Out on a Dark and Stormy Night Is Lying

Night’s dark. Storms happen.

No chance of a cab, so I’m subwayed and sardined ’midst the other sweatydrenched. I climb to the street, head to the match. Professional wrestling. Yes, really.

 

My client’s friend vanished; she suspects the husband, a beloved babyface. I need to get a look at him. I’m late. (See: dark, stormy.)

 

A called-in favor gets me on the floor. I push through the crowd, shimmysqueeze to my seat, savor the sightline.

 

The match has started. Suspect’s in a chokehold. The heel, in momentary triumph, looks up. Our eyes meet. Hold.

 

He knows something. He wants something. Someone.

 

So do I.

[100/tart noir/heel/eyes meeting]

Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window

My neck hurts. How much longer does he need me to look at this letter? Are all painters this slow? I need a break. I want to look out the window, take in the horizon, but there is no horizon, not really, just more buildings blocking my view. Anyway, what view am I allowed other than this damn letter? My neck is stuck at tilt; here comes an unseasonably cool breeze. I am going to put this letter down and close the window. I am. I’m cold. My neck hurts. I’m done. I’m closing it right now. Right now, Jan.

 

[100/historical fiction/horizon/closing a window]