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When transsexual starlet Aisling is murdered, Detective Geraldine Meyers is assigned the case. With help from medical examiner Dr. Rachel Hunter, Gerri realizes this is no ordinary killing. While she might not want to call in over-eager anthropologist Dr. Kinsey DanAllart, the detective is forced to trust her friend's expertise in symbology, even though doing so means admitting "weird" things might be happening in Silver City. As the three friends unravel the mystery of the dancer's death, one thing is made absolutely apparent--something isn't right in their new hometown. And someone is doing everything they can to make sure the truth doesn't come out.
In Silver City, sometimes friendship can be murder.
Welcome to the first Nightshade Case, a series of twenty-one episodes in twenty-one weeks. Please note: this episodic series is based on the television show model, with screenwriting notations and shorter formats. There will be a complete mystery each week, with cliffhangers only occurring in the full season story line.
Excerpt:
The stage door squealed softly on unoiled hinges as Aisling’s fake French manicure scraped over the edge.
“Well,
damn it all to hell, girl.” She wobbled on her new Prada knockoffs, one
knee buckling briefly before her natural balance kicked in. Her eyes
struggled to focus on the partially torn edge of her nail. She turned
with more enthusiasm than she should have risked in her mind-altered
condition, upper body swaying as she flashed the offending gray, dented
exit her damaged middle finger. And snorted out a giggle. “Showed you.
Asshole.”
She’d
only had one drink, shouldn’t have been this messed up. Her nose
twitched as she sniffed. Oh, right. And a whole lot of cocaine for 3AM.
Aisling giggled again, hands sliding down the front of her skintight
red dress. Her fingers skimmed over the tucked in package she did her
best to hide from the world, pausing on the way back up on her newly
inflated chest. The trip to Tijuana cost her a fraction of plastics in
the States. And the handsome Mexican doctor knew his shit. Gave her
stunning breasts. She was lucky to find one who understood her
particular situation. Who could turn a blind eye to what she lacked, no
questions asked, who trained his nurses to silence and secrecy.
Worth his weight in gold. She brought lots of drugs home with her, over the border, for her friends, naturally.
But, for her, coke was better than painkillers.
The
filthy alleyway stank of decaying food, waste from the bar she’d just
left. Didn’t help the bums who lived under the bridge liked to peep at
the dancers and used this place for a toilet after jerking off to the
memory. Aisling’s finely-crafted nose turned up, ruby lips parting as
she half strutted, half wavered her way past the rusting dumpster, shoe
slipping in a patch of reeking fluid leaking out of the damaged corner.
She
caught herself with a gasp, the loud clang of her heavy, metal bangle
slamming into the side of the dumpster ringing like a bell. It made her
pause after her start, hum the same note. Tottering on four inches of
stiletto, she sashayed her narrow hips from side to side, spinning at
last just past the dumpster with a flourish.
“Use
that sweet move tomorrow night,” she told the open, humid air and deep,
dark California night. It made her smile, even as she wobbled on,
deeper into the alley. Music and dancing were her life and had been
since she was a little boy.
Girl.
She corrected herself by stopping, cocking one hip to the side and
waggling her finger in the air as though to admonish a stranger. “I,”
she said in a slurred and empty voice, “am a girl.”
Sure,
she still had some junk to deal with. The patch of taut skin between
her legs—the hated extra flesh tucked firmly back and taped out of
sight—reminded her with every step she had a ways to go. Screw it.
Small, fine-boned hands adjusted her new rack again. When she was done,
she would give up the drugs and this crappy shit-hole of a queer bar and
go find a real job as a real dancer. On the East Coast maybe. New York.
London, even.
Silver City could kiss her ass.
Aisling
giggled again at the visual image her stoned mind came up with. It took
her a moment to drag her focus back, sniffing delicately, the faint
tingle of the drug still in her nostrils. A giant bag—matching her
shoes, of course—swung against her hip as she frowned down into it,
swaying as she dug into the dark interior.
Damn it. What did she do with her car keys?
The
door squealed for a second time, spinning her around. And, in that
instant, everything changed. Fear raced through her, clearing her mind.
Aisling's fingers located the small, square box of her Taser buried at
the bottom. She hated being sober, and being afraid even more. Too many
years of hiding, of having friends fall victim to haters. Worse, those
who hunted, who tracked her kind for sport or out of “scientific
curiosity.” Her free hand settled over the center of her chest, pressing
into the silence there. No matter the reason for her fear, it left her
with a cold and terrible pit of anxiety she knew she’d never shed no
matter how much work she had done to this body of hers.
Or how well she hid what she really was.
Until
she spotted the person walking toward her, down the alley, with steady,
reassuring steps. She smiled, ruby lips separating, feeling her body
warm in response to the sight. The coke resurged and made everything all
right again. That empty place inside her chest, under her quivering
hand, filled with longing, a hunger so powerful she could barely stand
it. That was the true hole she tried to fill. That only a certain kind
of attention could feed. And here was the perfect meal, falling into her
lap.
“What
are you doing here?” She licked her lips, chest tightening, heating in
anticipation. “I wondered if you’d come looking for seconds.” She was
almost grateful for the loss of her full-on buzz. There were better ways
to get high. Much better ways.
It
wasn’t until shadow fell over her, the flash of a silver blade cutting
through the dark of between them, Aisling understood. And even then, she
was so shocked, all she could do was stare as the knife plunged, Taser
forgotten in her hand, the vague and distant scream in her head only
begging her killer to spare her brand-new boobs.
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