A desperate three-word text from an ex-wife drags a tired San Antonio PI away from his paperback and into a dangerous game.
Writer’s Prompt
The overhead fan cut the Texas heat into stale slices. Lou Bannister had his boots propped on the scarred oak desk, halfway through an old John D. MacDonald paperback. He was drifting somewhere off Marathon Key with Travis McGee, wishing the San Antonio humidity was at least a salt breeze, when his phone buzzed.
A text from Lori Jefferson. His ex by six years, three months, and a lifetime of regrets.
Three words: Lou help me.
Lou let the paperback drop. His pulse, usually as steady as a diesel engine, skipped. Lori wasn’t the type to cry wolf; when they broke IT off, she’d vowed never to speak his name again.
He tapped back: Where are you?
The dots danced. Then vanished.
Lou stood up, the leather of his holster creaking in the quiet office. He stared out the grime-streaked window at the shimmering asphalt below. Six years was long enough for a woman to build a whole new life—or get deep into a whole new kind of trouble.
His phone chimed again. A dropped pin map location. It was an abandoned industrial park off I-35, a place where concrete went to die.
Lou grabbed his Stetson and his keys. Driving there, the sky turned the color of a bruised plum, threatening a downpour that would do nothing to cool the air. He pulled past the rusted gates of the complex, the tires crunching on broken glass.
In the shadow of a crumbling warehouse sat Lori’s silver sedan. The driver’s side door swung wide open, a single red high heel resting on the gravel nearby.
Lou drew his piece, the metal cool against his palm. Then, a shadow moved inside the warehouse doorway.
What happens next? Does Lou walk into a trap, or is he just in time? Write the next line and finish Lou’s investigation.
