Excerpt 1
The following is not a tale for the faint-hearted. 

I wish I could say we all made it out alive, but this is not the case. Some languish behind prison bars and some rest beneath the dirt. Others have returned to the comforts of home. 

I escaped with my life, though you have likely guessed as much. 

What follows is a humble account of my time with Tristan Beaufort. Looking back, I would say he is best described as a man who would place himself among the Philip Marlowes and Sam Spades of the world, but was far too kindhearted to be hardboiled, and too distinct to be discreet. 

The rest must be read to be believed.   

I was in my twenty-seventh year, when I first met Tristan Beaufort. My life had been shaping up to be less than ideal, though perhaps of some interest to one of the more burned-out existentialists. While others settled into their careers and families, I passed from one temporary job to the next, never in one workplace for long. 

I had resigned myself to this fate: this life of endless, stalling distraction. I accepted my lot with the kind of stoicism Marcus Aurelius himself would envy. At least, this is what I told the few who asked.

I am aware that a clinician might have known my distraction by another name, but that is neither here nor there. Out of respect for the reader, I shall elaborate no further.

My practiced resignation experienced a subtle shift when, one day, I received a phone call. The woman on the line thought she had a job that would suit me well. She recalled my interest in the written word, and thought I might make good use of it in this position. 

Her voice droned through the finer details, barraging my ears with her anesthetic. From amidst the tide of useless words and mundane utterances, I picked up the heart of the message towards which she uneconomically wandered: I would become the assistant to a famed private detective, Tristan Beaufort. 

Famed. If the name sounded familiar, the reason escaped me. 

Excerpt 2
Darvis was never one to be ordered around. If she wasn’t thirsty before, she sure as hell was now. It was the kind of all-consuming thirst that only room temperature grapefruit flavored vodka could satisfy, with its sharp, acidic, yet pleasing palette, made all the more accessible by its warm temperature. Darvis would be damned if she let Agent Cooking Wine tell her what she could and couldn’t do. 

“Agent Cooking Wine,” Darvis said, as she poured herself a highball full of vodka. “That’s quite a mouthful, we’ll need to think of a way to shorten it.”

“Agent Mirin is short enough.”

“C. Dub.” Darvis gulped from the glass. “I think that’s what I’ll call you from now on. Agent C. Dub.”

“That’s the same number of syllables.”

“It’s much shorter.” Darvis looked on the fool with pity. “But then I suppose that’s why I’m a tenured professor, and you’re a step up from mall cop.”

 “Please, professor, this is very serious business,” Agent Mirin pleaded. “I am begging you to treat it as such.”

Darvis sighed. “Very well, what is all this ruckus about?”

Agent Mirin was visibly relieved at Darvis’ attempt to take the case seriously. 

“You wrote a book a few years ago—”

“Ah yes!” Darvis exclaimed, kicking back in her chair. “My award-winning expose on the mathematical webwork which holds us in the spider’s clutch.” She furrowed her brow, and looked at Agent Mirin with concern. “I suppose I’ve made the higher-ups at the FBI nervous.”

“No, ma’am.” Agent Mirin grew ever more frustrated. “We are here because someone has taken your book too seriously, and is on a crime spree inspired by your writing. We’ve had two bodies turn up already, each linked undeniably to your book. The madman shows no sign of stopping, and the director would like your help in catching him. Otherwise, I’m afraid the carnage will continue.”