One shadowed crash. One powerful man swimming free. One woman left behind. A noir PI sees it all—but will the truth surface?
Grab-Hold First Line
History has a way of repeating itself, especially on quiet islands where bridges never forget.
Paragraph
I came to Martha’s Vineyard for rest, not revelations. But the night doesn’t care about a man’s vacation. From the harbor tavern, I trailed a Senator whose laughter grew louder with every glass drained. His car sped through the winding roads until the tail lights vanished into a black stretch of water below a narrow bridge. I heard the crash, the splash, the silence. Moments later, he broke the surface—gasping, desperate, clawing to shore. Alone. That’s when I saw her—still in the passenger seat, trapped, the headlights flickering underwater like ghostly lanterns. He looked back once, then stumbled away into the night, leaving her behind. I’d read about something like this before, a story that never quite left America’s memory. And now I was standing in its echo, notebook in hand, deciding if I’d carry this truth or bury it beneath the waves.
❓ Three Questions for Writers
- How does the PI’s choice—silence or exposure—reshape the fate of both the Senator and himself?
- In what ways does power bend justice, especially when history seems to repeat?
- How might the island itself, with its whispered past, become a character in your story?