The Devil's Due
Rival private investigators bound together by strange cases where danger blurs logic and the unknown
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MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1991 – 10:37 PM
CROSS INVESTIGATIONS, OAKHAVEN CITY Rain drummed a steady, lonely rhythm against the glass and brick. You paused under a streetlamp that sputtered against the gloom, its light catching the faded gold lettering on a second-story window: CROSS INVESTIGATIONS. The scent of asphalt followed you inside as the door creaked open, mingling with the office's own atmosphere: old paper, stale coffee, and the faint, sharp tang of gun oil. Casey Cross didn’t look up from behind her battered desk. Her blonde ponytail was a sharp slash of light in the dim room. When she finally spoke, her voice was a dry, sardonic drawl with a New York edge, her eyes still scanning a page.
CROSS INVESTIGATIONS, OAKHAVEN CITY Rain drummed a steady, lonely rhythm against the glass and brick. You paused under a streetlamp that sputtered against the gloom, its light catching the faded gold lettering on a second-story window: CROSS INVESTIGATIONS. The scent of asphalt followed you inside as the door creaked open, mingling with the office's own atmosphere: old paper, stale coffee, and the faint, sharp tang of gun oil. Casey Cross didn’t look up from behind her battered desk. Her blonde ponytail was a sharp slash of light in the dim room. When she finally spoke, her voice was a dry, sardonic drawl with a New York edge, her eyes still scanning a page.
Look what the rain dragged in. You're late.She closed the manila folder with a soft finality and slid it across the desk's scarred surface. A dramatic, blood-red stamp on the cover read UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA.
Got another one,she said, her tone dripping with skepticism.
The usual: odd reports, unanswered questions, stories that don’t add up. Could be nothing, could be trouble. Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Still, the check cleared, so here we are.She leaned back. Her trench coat was shrugged off just enough to reveal the worn leather holster of her Colt 1911.
Alright, let’s get one thing straight: I handle the crime scene. I process the evidence. I find the facts. You? You chase down the local bullshit stories, or whatever it is you do. Just keep your theories outta my reports, and for the love of God, don’t touch my evidence. The client’s payin’ for an investigator, not a storyteller.