Writer’s Prompt: Closet Confessions: When the Private Eye Becomes the Prey

Tony Martin expected a scandal; instead, he found a hazmat suit and a very large man named Tom.

Writer’s Prompt

The cedar chest in the closet smelled like mothballs and failed marriages. I was crouched behind a rack of floral prints, my knees popping with the rhythmic elegance of bubble wrap.

Through the closet slats, I watched Tom—the “physical trainer.” The guy had muscles in places I didn’t even have places. He looked like he’d been carved out of a single, very angry piece of granite. He didn’t sit on the bed; he just stood there, flexing at a mirror. I was pretty sure if he flexed any harder, he’d spontaneously combust.

“Don’t be long, Elena!” Tom boomed. His voice sounded like two boulders grinding together.

The door creaked. Elena stepped back in. I expected lace; I got a yellow hazmat suit and a bottle of extra-strength bleach. She wasn’t holding a negligee; she was holding a heavy-duty taser that hummed with the energy of a small power plant.

“Is the pest in the trap?” she asked, adjusting her goggles.

“The ‘detective’ is in the closet,” Tom grunted, finally cracking a smile that had zero warmth and way too many teeth. “He thinks he’s slick. He’s currently breathing in your Chanel No. 5 and my protein shake fumes.”

My ego took a bigger hit than my lungs. I wasn’t a noir mastermind; I was a glorified dust bunny. Elena stepped toward the closet, the taser sparking a cheerful blue.

“Come on out, Mr. Martin,” she cooed. “We’ve been dying to give you a full-body workout.”

I looked at my options: a dry-cleaning hanger, a stray stiletto, or trying to convince them I was a very sentient pile of laundry.

Does Tony tackle the hazmat suit or try to bluff his way out with a dry-cleaning bill? The punchline is up to you.