This is a bit of a teaser for a crime-noir story I'm working on. The story is that of Detective Vivian Harrington, a Boston Police detective hunting crime on the near future streets of Boston. I hope you enjoy this little teaser for the upcoming story:
The rain followed her home, tapping steadily against the worn brick façade of her rowhouse like an old companion who refused to leave her side. Vivian Harrington stepped through the gate, its black wrought iron cold and slick beneath her fingers. The metal creaked, protesting the intrusion, before snapping shut behind her. She paused at the door, briefly closing her eyes, letting the patter of rain and distant hum of cargo ships lull her into something resembling calm.
The lock clicked, and she stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of worn leather, faint coffee, and the hint of old books. She kicked off her boots—heavy with the grime of the city—and left them by the door, alongside a growing pile of shoes she kept meaning to organize.
The living room welcomed her with its muted, earthy tones. The dim overhead light cast shadows that danced along the walls, brushing against the shelves of old detective novels and forensic manuals. She ran her fingers across the spines, feeling the cracked leather and creased covers beneath her fingertips. The worn leather couch beckoned, but not yet—there were rituals to follow first.
She shrugged off her coat, droplets of rainwater spattering onto the hardwood floor. Hanging it on the wooden rack near the door, she made her way into the kitchen, where the faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kitchen felt like a relic of simpler times, with its wooden cabinets showing signs of age, their corners chipped and faded. The gas stove stood ready, a kettle resting on its burner like it had been waiting for her all day.
Vivian filled it with water, the sound of the tap echoing through the small space, and set it to boil. Her fingers found a chipped ceramic mug on the shelf, the one with the faded Boston skyline etched on its surface—a gift from her sister, Naomi. She pulled a tin of loose-leaf tea from the cupboard, its lid creaking as she twisted it off. The smell of bergamot and citrus wafted up, and for a moment, it cut through the haze in her mind.
While the kettle heated, she leaned against the countertop, staring out the small window above the sink. The street outside was quiet, save for the occasional swish of passing cars and the distant laughter of someone stumbling out of a nearby pub. Raindrops slid down the glass in lazy rivulets, distorting the glow of the streetlights into smudged halos. It was the kind of night that made the city feel both alive and suffocating.
The whistle of the kettle startled her out of her thoughts. She poured the steaming water over the tea leaves, watching the amber liquid swirl and deepen. Mug in hand, she moved back to the living room, the warmth seeping into her fingers as she took her first sip. It burned, but she welcomed the sting—a reminder that she was still here, still fighting.
Vivian Harrington, in her mid-30s, was lean and sharp, like a blade honed from years of use. Her dark hair, usually tied back into a practical ponytail for work, now fell loose, damp from the rain. Her angular features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline—gave her a constantly analytical expression, as if she were always solving a puzzle, even when she wasn’t. Tonight, her green eyes carried the weight of exhaustion, their usual sharpness dulled.
She sank into the couch, its leather cool against her skin, and placed the mug on the coffee table. The table was cluttered with case files, printouts, and photographs, all fanned out in chaotic disarray. The centerpiece of the mess was a corkboard she had leaned against the wall, lines of red string connecting names, dates, and locations. The photo in the center was Edward Kass, a tech entrepreneur suspected of orchestrating a high-profile corporate data heist. Three weeks had passed since the theft, and despite her efforts, Kass remained elusive.
Vivian leaned forward, picking up a photo of Kass at a gala, his arm around a woman who was later identified as his accomplice. She set the photo down and rubbed her temples, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders.
She let her gaze wander to the framed photo on the mantel—a picture of her and Naomi at a Red Sox game, their smiles genuine, their arms slung around each other like nothing could touch them. Next to it was a smaller frame, one she hadn’t touched in years: her and Eric Connors, her late fiancé. His smile haunted her in moments like this, when the weight of the world felt unbearable.
The sound of rain tapping against the window grew louder, like fingers drumming out a message she couldn’t decipher. She stood, stretching the stiffness from her muscles, and walked to the window. The glass was cold against her palm as she leaned into it, watching the city breathe in neon reflections and shadows.
A knock at the door shattered the quiet.
Vivian tensed, her hand instinctively reaching for the side table where her service pistol rested. She approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole. The distorted figure standing under the flickering porch light was familiar, but unwelcome at this hour.
She opened the door just enough to let her voice slip through. “What do you want?”
The figure stepped closer, rain dripping from the brim of their hat. “You’re not the only one chasing ghosts tonight, Viv.”
The voice was familiar—Lena Park.
Lena’s presence was as striking as ever. Her short black hair, cut just above the nape of her neck, was damp and clung to her face in messy strands. Her athletic build, honed from years of training and fieldwork, was hidden beneath a soaked jacket that hugged her shoulders. Her intense brown eyes, framed by faint shadows of fatigue, carried both warmth and concern.
Vivian sighed, opening the door wider to let her inside. The rain followed Lena, dripping onto the floor as she shook off her coat. She looked tired, her posture relaxed but alert, like someone who could snap into action at any moment.
“Tea?” Vivian asked, already heading back to the kitchen.
“I won’t say no,” Lena replied, settling onto the couch and scanning the mess of case files. “Still no breakthrough?”
Vivian shook her head, pouring a second cup and bringing it over. “Every lead turns into a dead end. Kass has too many resources, and I can’t tell if I’m missing something or if he’s just that good at covering his tracks.”
Lena took a sip of the tea, her gaze softening. “You’ll get there. You always do.”
Vivian sat down beside her, the silence stretching between them like a bridge neither was sure how to cross. The sound of rain continued, steady and persistent, as if the city itself were waiting for something to break.
For tonight, though, they let the rain do the talking.
