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Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!
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I’m back from my week-long, semi-Internetless vacation in the northlands of Wisconsin—and for those of you who weren’t aware I’d left, raspberries to you I have plenty of photos and mosquito bites to prove it.
This week, I thought I’d go on with more of Clyota’s lawyer, because she’s a hoot to write and if I ever have cause to need a lawyer conversant in capital crimes, I’d want her.
Samantha resumed her seat behind the desk, her dress swirling around her before settling into becoming folds. “So . . . Lieutenant William Strapton-Hardcastle died on your living room floor, and thank the Deity of Your Choice that he wasn’t on active duty at the time, or this would be even messier, but as it is, there will be a WASA rep or two in the courtroom—double jeopardy applies to the murder charge, but there are lots of different ways to get around that.”
She took a deep breath and gave me a direct look from her startling green-gold eyes. “So . . . did you kill him?”
“No,” I said.
She nodded. “Christina told me you hadn’t,” she said, “at great, loud length. You wouldn’t happen to know who did?”
Earful of Cider 