The Private Eye

Voltur | 2021-02-16

She sat at the P.I. desk, her hair hurried, extravagant evening gown wrinkled, back to the door, sobbing quietly. Something tragic had happened. Decaying blood on her collar with a brooch boasting her family crest; She moved a body.

"Mr. Wilcox," she greeted me. "I need to hire you to help find my husband." Easy money.