Detective Max adjusted the brim of his fedora, worn out by the fatigue of countless cases solved and unsolved, as he stepped onto the porch. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of rotting leaves and forest smoke, a sharp contrast to the rich, almost suffocating aroma of old books and expensive cigars that wafted from the writer's house. The house belonged to Arthur Finch, a renowned mystery writer who, ironically, was now the center of his own real-life enigma. Finch had reported a theft: the manuscript of his forthcoming, long-awaited novel, The Serpent’s Kiss, was missing. Finch, a large man with a neatly trimmed mustache and nervous eyes, greeted Max at the door. “Detective, thank God you’re here! I'm desperate. The manuscript has vanished! He led Max into a study reminiscent of a literary sanctuary. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, interspersed with antique globes, framed first editions, and various odd artifacts collected from Finch’s travels. “Tell me every...
Human thoughts out loud