Frank sat in front of the typewriter. It was 2:30 in the morning and the city was dead. The red sign from the nearby hotel flooded through the blinds. He thought of the blood and how he had found Mary four hours earlier. She was a good girl on the wrong side, she was scared, something big was happening and she wanted out, but they wouldn’t let her go.
Frank was just a crime writer. His life had all been fiction until now. Perhaps that’s why he panicked and ran.
He should’ve stayed but who’d believe it wasn’t him. His stories weren’t exactly the cops’ favorites. They wouldn’t have done him a favor that’s for sure. But no, he wasn’t seen, he wasn’t followed, he was out.
The telephone cut through his somber reflections, “Hello, hello, who’s there?”. The phone clicked. Probably some punk messing about.
Settle back down, a last cigarette, a last drink, finish the chapter then some sleep and wake up to find it was all a dream. “Yeh, good idea, after I get rid of that damn cat from across the hall scratching at my door”
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