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The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 8

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  Chapter 8 – The Boy on the Bicycle Children rarely begin a story where adults expect. Ask a grown-up about the worst day of their life and they'll usually start with the event. Ask a child the same question and they'll begin with breakfast. The important parts are different. I found Tommy Martinez sitting on the curb outside the neighborhood park tightening the chain on a bicycle that looked as though it had survived three owners and at least one regrettable encounter with a pickup truck. Tommy couldn't have been older than ten. The story give to me in my research sounded like the tagline for an artsy horror flick that people debate about online: "Kid says he rides bikes with someone who's been dead for thirty years." Tommy looked up as I approached. "You the detective?" "That’s what my business cards say.” "Lily said you'd probably come,” he said, returning to his bike chain. "I hope that's a good thing....
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The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 7

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  Chapter 7 – Emotional Residue Every detective has a moment when the facts stop fitting inside the case they thought they were investigating. A clue doesn’t jive with what you know. A story comes out of left field and upends the context of the investigation. Or no matter how much you stare at the information it never comes together. For me, it usually happened sometime between the second cup of coffee and accepting that the impossible had a better grip on reality than I did. By Friday afternoon, I'd stopped asking whether strange things were happening on Laurel Lane. They were. The better question was why they all seemed to happen at exactly the same time of day. I spent the afternoon walking the neighborhood without interviewing anyone or taking notes. Observation was the only agenda item. During daylight, Laurel Lane remained aggressively ordinary. Landscapers trimmed hedges with military precision. A delivery driver wrestled a king-sized mattress up the front walk of ...
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The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 6

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  Fireflies at Dusk by Daniel Ambrose  Chapter 6 – The Woman in the Yellow House Grief arrives when it is damn good and ready and not a moment sooner or later. It rarely arrives when people die. Death, at least, has the courtesy to announce itself. There are phone calls. Hospital rooms. Funeral homes with carpet chosen specifically to hide sadness. Grief prefers ambush. It shows up in grocery aisles when a particular song suddenly plays on the loudspeaker while you’re choosing a healthier breakfast cereal. It sneaks up on you in traffic or while you’re folding towels. While reaching for a second coffee mug before remembering there’s no one left to use it. By Thursday morning, I had collected a short list of Willow Lane residents who had reported unusual activity culled from my own interviews with the residents, monitored conversations on the police scanner, and some tips from the usual contacts a guy like me needs in this line of work. Most of it was the usual neighborho...
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