by MarktheAuthor | Dec 19, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Process, Serialized, Writing
Girl’s Gone The drive to the Peale home revealed a small-scale, picturesque town surrounded by mountains. Its valley location made for short days covered in a soft layer of darkness at a quarter of seven in the morning. Crisp air carried a hint of wood smoke. Bright...
by MarktheAuthor | Dec 18, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Process, Serialized, Writing
Eureka “Slow morning?” I asked the bespectacled, middle-aged Pippi Longstocking-type behind the counter. I’d settled on a stool at The Daily Diner in Eureka, Montana, after the grueling drive through the mountains. I was ready for a hot cup of joe and a fattening...
by MarktheAuthor | Dec 12, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Process, Serialized, Writing
Long Haul I was on the road again by one a.m., merging the Tacoma onto the empty highway four days before Thanksgiving. The asphalt stretched out like a deserted runway, devoid of slow-moving tourists or farm tractors. Abandoned rest stops flew by with picnic tables...
by MarktheAuthor | Dec 10, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Process, Serialized, Writing
The 600 Double-Cross The jangle of the 600 Café doorbell harmonized with the raucous clatter of dishes. A hum of neighborly chatter and the comforting aroma of brewing coffee chipped away at the chill of disgrace that lingered from an afternoon in the slammer. I’d...
by MarktheAuthor | Dec 6, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Process, Serialized, Writing
Your Father’s Son Feeble illumination from a lone bulb flickered above thirty feet of dark mahogany, giving the deeply polished wood of the Montana Bar a reverent glow. Rows of bottled spirits trembled with the electric energy of the back bar lights. An odor of...
by MarktheAuthor | Dec 3, 2025 | Fiction, Novels, Private Investigator, Serialized, Writing
Your Son’s Father Five-year-old Penelope Jane thrust a multi-colored drawing at my face. “Unicorns are real,” she said in the manner of absolutes reserved for young children. I’d driven home, needing to see her, to touch my child, make sure she was safe. Stretched...
