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The Bunker on FillmoreThe first call came at 6:47 AM. Lorraine West was still in bed—she'd been up since 3:00 AM, watching the street below her apartment from the fire escape, counting headlights, counting footsteps, counting the moments between one threat and the next. The phone rang and she let it ring four times before answering, because answering too quickly made you look guilty and answering too slowly made you...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The winter fog clung to the stone walls of St. Catherine's Academy like a shroud. Clara Whitmore stood at the dormitory window on her third evening in York, watching the mist swallow the manicured lawThe reception dinner had been worse than she anticipated. Not because of the cruelty—it was never outright cruelty at places like this, never the open contempt of the country schools her father used to attend—but because of the precision. The precise way Lady Margaret Percival's smile never quite reached her eyes when Clara mentioned her scholarship. The precise forkful of lamb each girl took,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The GatekeepersRobert Cummings sat at his desk and looked at the stack of manuscripts in front of him. Twenty-three biography proposals. Twenty-three lives, twenty-three stories, twenty-three chances to decide who got remembered and who got forgotten.He was fifty-two years old and he had spent the last twenty years doing exactly this: sitting at a desk in a Manhattan office building, reading other people's...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The House of Yellow ThreadThe House of Yellow Thread The mule collapsed on the road outside the Beauregard house at four in the afternoon, which was late enough that the heat had not broken but early enough that nobody was home to help. Eula Mae Beauregard was in the yard, shelling peas, when she heard the sound — not a crash, not a cry, just the slow, shuddering collapse of something that had been holding itself...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pattern in the BloodShe found the file in the basement of the Los Angeles Central Library, in a box labeled "Closed Cases — Private Investigations — M," and she almost did not open it. Her name was Diana Chen, and she was twenty-eight years old, and she was a journalist for the Los Angeles Times, and she was supposed to be researching a story about the history of private investigation in Southern California, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Man Who Was His Own CaseThe file was thin. Jack Moran had seen thinner files, but not many, and never for a case that had kept him awake for three nights straight. It sat on his desk beneath the empty bottle of rye — he had poured the rest out, but he kept the bottle as a reminder of what he was trying not to become — and it contained exactly three things: a photograph of Eleanor Callahan's mother that Eleanor had...0 Comments 0 Shares 764 Views 0 Reviews
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The Academy of BlackwaterThe Mississippi ran brown and slow that afternoon, carrying with it the silt of a hundred miles of cotton fields and the ghosts of a hundred thousand dead. Elias Mercer stood on the levee and watched it move, thinking that some things never changed, no matter how many years passed. Twenty-three years had passed since the war ended. Twenty-three years since the guns fell silent and the South...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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When the Detective Stopped Looking OutwardHe had been a detective for eleven years, and in those eleven years he had investigated forty-seven cases that he could remember — the cheating husbands, the missing wives, the insurance frauds, the occasional lost dog that belonged to someone wealthy enough to pay a private investigator to find it — and in every single one of those cases, the solution had been outside of him. The cheating...0 Comments 0 Shares 197 Views 0 Reviews
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The Silent Observatory - V4: Postcolonial African LiteraryThe red dust of Nairobi did not care for borders drawn in London conference rooms. It rose from the earth the same way it had always risen — thick, persistent, indifferent to flags — and settled on everything: the rusted dome of the Kenya Observatory, the yellowed pages of Dr. Kamau Osei's astronomy textbooks, the cracked lips of his students during morning lectures beneath the jacaranda...0 Comments 0 Shares 762 Views 0 Reviews
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