Personal Narrative Essay

Detective Hunter Sloane, the top recruit of his graduating class and the first promoted to detective, thanks to his hound dog instincts, and relentless determination, had a new case. It took eight years, but he’d earned boasting rights and the respect of his peers and yet he remained humble. Though to be fair, his comrades did it for him. “With no cold cases to speak of, he’s simply the best at what he does,” someone said.
“That’s because I’m here to work, not play hopscotch like you jokesters,” he quipped.
To date, Donovan Kingsley’s case was the most notable he’d had. In fact, he had just finished interviewing a list of prominent business owners who’d had dealings with him. Other than that, Hunter couldn’t account for any of Kingsley’s staff,

so he thought of other means of obtaining information. Nearly all of Kingsley’s employees were men, Leonard, the butler–a widower, and 2 single men in their early to late 20s, except for the cook—a middle-aged woman. Sloane played with his pencil. What do men with plenty of cash and lots of free time do? Drink their way to the bottom of the barrel or empty their pockets entertaining women, he thought.
Strumming the surface of the desk with the eraser, he sat there contemplating what to do. Afterward, he drove away from the one-story clay brick structure located less than a mile from the town’s center and made a left on Lick Liver Drive, passing the Social Nomad, which now filled the black Ford’s rearview mirror.
A mile out from the downtown area, the car idled in the lane as he looked at a building across the street. The honk of a horn brought his attention back to the road; he looked in his mirror, and saw that a car had pulled up behind him. Sloane pulled off the road and parked. A short walk later, he entered Decadence of Lustful Delights, an upscale brothel.
Madame Chevaliéa seductively swayed her hips as she strode cunningly toward him.
“Good afternoon. Do you have someone specific in mind … a type?” the pale, voluptuous woman with hooded eyes and fiery red hair asked with a sultry purr to her voice.
Her gaze climbed him as he stood there blank-faced. The peach bustier dress she wore smothered her bosom into compliance, the middle slimmed her waistline, and the rest of her garment curved against her hips like a second skin. Sloane looked on with disinterest and displayed his badge. “I’m Detective Sloane. I have some questions for you.”
With that said, she lost interest in him. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to question me.”
Madame Chevaliéa placed a hand on her chest, and sighed while he looked around the lobby.
“You’d be surprised how helpful you can be. Do you have any clients that work for well to do families?”
“It’s highly likely, but the girls would know more about that than I would. Besides, what they discuss during pillow talk is confidential—no different from a lawyer-client privilege agreement.”
He furrowed his brows. “I doubt that. Do you know if any of your clients worked for Donovan Kingsley?”
“We might have catered to a few over the years, but most recently, there’s a young man who courted three of my girls from time to time.”
Court a harlot?

Hunter fought the urge to chortle. “Are they here? I’d like to have a word with them.”
“Sure. Follow me. You can use one of the rooms. Questioning them in the lobby might spook the customers.”
Madame Chevaliéa escorted Detective Sloane to a room normally used for lovemaking where he spoke at length to Abigail and Lyla, but the conversations they held with their clients weren’t particularly useful to the investigation. Immediately thereafter, he spoke with the third courtesan in a room farther down the hall. Within the confines of the room, which reeked of heavy perfume and perspiration, she divulged all of her activities.
Three months prior, Anton Newman–Kingsley’s guard lay limp in a bed with an attractive, bell-shaped courtesan in his arms. On the wall facing the foot of the bed, women with their breasts exposed and their lower extremities draped in textiles posed within frames. Anton reached for a bottle of wine on the small dresser near the bed, drank straight from the bottle, and then gave it to her.
Blanche raised a brow as she read the label. “What’s the occasion?”
Newman leaned into her and groped her left breast. “I got a new job—and I wanted to celebrate with my favorite gal,” he said and kissed her roughly on the

cheek.
“Congratulations, lover boy, but what’s in it for me?” she asked and sat up in bed with the sheet gathered at her midriff.
“Regular visits!” Newman flashed her a wink. Anton looked up at the ceiling and considered the cost of working for Donovan Kingsley. “He pays well, but there’s no telling what he’ll have me do.”
“Mhmm.” Blanche swung her leg over his; straddling his hips, she leaned in for a lustful kiss.
Blanche was about to go into the unabridged details of her sexual escapades with Anton when Detective Sloane whose face got redder by the second stood up, “that’s all I need to know.”
Blanche ogled him while she wantonly played with the string on her top, twirling it around her finger, loosening the laces one by one. “What’s the rush?” She seized his hand. “You’re more than welcome to stick around, and spend some time with me,” she said, rubbed the top of her bosom. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Not for all the tea in China, but if you think of anything that might help with the investigation, give me a call,” he took back his hand and gave her his card.
While Sloane wrapped up his visit to the brothel, a final act of defiance took place on Draíocht Dol, as the corpse lying on the surface of the pond exorcised a final gasp, freeing a fume from its twisted lips that was far worse than the malodorous odor immersing the area. A splotched, murky brown hue—unlike the living—and abnormal shape gave the cadaver an otherworldly appearance as if helium filled the body, distorting its features enough to inspire nightmares and even more so when the floater writhed.