Six Sentence Sunday is open to all writers. Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.
Registration for the upcoming Sunday list opens the previous Tuesday evening at 5pm CST. More information is here.
When last we left them, Clyota and the Pressman were going after the lockbox left behind when Clyota was arrested for murder. But first, they have to get past the Crime Scene beacon that’s sealing her property like an invisible electric fence . . . supposedly:
“I didn’t know it would be so easy,” I said, as the Pressman crouched in front of the beacon and flipped a switch with a gloved finger.
“It isn’t,” he said, sweeping my house with his lens. “The beacon wasn’t on.”
A figure, male from the stride, came around the side of the house, carrying something under his arm. He wasn’t wearing a police uniform, but the night-colored, ski-masked outfit of a completely different profession.
The son of a bitch had broken into my house.
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