A Way With Murder

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Monday morning everything in Bryson Wilde’s life changed. It happened when he was in his office, pacing next to the windows with coffee in one hand and a smoke in the other. It happened when the door opened and a woman walked in.

She wasn’t dressed to impress.

Down below were sandals and up top was a baseball cap, slightly tilted to the side, with a dishwater blond ponytail hanging out the back. Between the two was an uneventful pair of loose cotton pants and a plain white blouse.

She looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four.

Her eyes were lagoon blue.

Her face was mysteriously hypnotic.

Her body was curvy.

“I’m in trouble,” she said. “I was hoping you could help me.”

Wilde tapped a smoke out of the pack and handed it to her.

She took it and said, “Thanks.”

He lit her up from his.

“What’s your name?”

“Secret,” she said. “Secret St. Rain.”

“I’ve never seen you around town.”

“I’m not from here.”

“Too bad. So what kind of trouble are you in, Secret St. Rain?”

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