DEATH IS ETERNAL #414
3,500 words
For the first time in a long time, I wrote THE DISAPPEARING HEIRESS (i.e., the short story) before I wrote this introduction. But that will be the only difference in this DEATH IS ETERNAL, which is good news; after all, the last two newsletters have been very different, so it’s good to have some kind of normality after a long, long time away—okay, two weeks is not that long. Anyway... Enough with introductions; let’s read what I already wrote.
Contents
THE DISAPPEARING HEIRESS
Writing: writing
Bye!
Life (from August 12 to 25, 2024)
Reviews #307, #308, #309, and #310: THE REGIME, ONCE UPON A TIME AT THE END OF THE WORLD by Jason Aaron and others, ZATANNA by Paul Dini and others, and CRIME AND PUNISHMENT by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The end
1. THE DISAPPEARING HEIRESS
The rain was relentless, hammering against the cracked windowpanes of the dingy office on the corner of Hastings and Main. Inside, the only sound competing with the storm was the steady pour of whiskey into a glass, its amber contents swirling like the memories the man behind the desk was trying to drown. Jack Harrigan, private detective, sat slouched in his chair, the collar of his rumpled shirt open and his tie askew. He hadn’t had a case in weeks, and the bills were piling up faster than the empty bottles in the corner.
But just as he tipped the glass to his lips, the door creaked open, revealing a figure wrapped in shadows. She stepped into the dim light, and Jack’s eyes sharpened. She was tall, elegant, and dripping with the kind of money that never had to ask for anything. Her raven-black hair was perfectly coiffed, her lips painted the colour of danger, and her eyes, cold as ice, held secrets that could burn a man alive.
“Mr. Harrigan,” she purred, her voice smooth like silk and twice as expensive. “I need your help.”
Jack set down his glass, the whiskey sloshing over the rim. “Help? Sure, lady. If you’ve got the green to back it up.”
She smiled a predatory grin that sent a shiver down Jack’s spine. “Money is no object. I need you to find my sister.”
Jack leaned back, his interest piqued. “Who’s your sister?”
“Veronica Hartley,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “She disappeared from the gala at the Fairmont Hotel Vancouver two nights ago. No one’s seen or heard from her since.”
Jack whistled low. The Hartleys were old money, the kind that built Vancouver. They were practically royalty in this city. If the youngest Hartley was missing, it wasn’t just a scandal—it was an earthquake.
“And why come to me? The family’s got the VPD on speed dial. They could have half the force looking for her if they wanted.”
Her gaze turned steely. “The police don’t need to know everything. I want this handled quietly, Mr. Harrigan. Discretion is paramount.”
Jack understood the subtext. The kind of family secrets the Hartleys harboured wouldn’t survive the harsh light of a police investigation. He leaned forward, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Fine. I’ll take the case. But I’ll need more than just a name. Where do I start?”
She handed him a photograph, and Jack studied the face of the woman who had vanished. Veronica Hartley was stunning, with a beauty that seemed almost ethereal. But there was something in her eyes—something haunted.
“She was last seen at the Fairmont, mingling with the city’s elite. But I’d start with the family,” she said, her voice cold. “The Hartleys have more skeletons than a graveyard, and Veronica was never one to keep quiet.”
Jack nodded. “And who might you be, lady?”
Her lips curled into a smirk. “Isabelle Hartley. But that’s all you need to know.”
With that, she turned and swept out of the office, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and the promise of trouble.
Jack took a final swig of his whiskey, grabbed his coat, and headed out into the storm. The city was a beast of glass and concrete, and tonight, it felt more menacing than usual. He knew the Hartleys lived in a penthouse that overlooked English Bay, a fortress of wealth that few could breach. But Jack wasn’t just anyone. He had a knack for finding cracks in even the most impregnable walls.
The Hartley mansion was an opulent nightmare, a gilded cage that reeked of privilege. Jack was greeted at the door by a butler with a face carved from granite and eyes that had seen too much. The man led him to the drawing room, where the head of the family, Richard Hartley, sat like a king on his throne.
Richard was a man whose presence filled the room, his silver hair and sharp features giving him an air of authority that demanded respect. But Jack wasn’t here to play nice. He was here for answers.
“Mr. Hartley,” Jack began, “I’m here about Veronica.”
Richard’s gaze was cold, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what Isabelle told you, Mr. Harrigan, but my daughter’s disappearance is a private matter. We’ve already contacted the authorities.”
“Is that so? Because your other daughter seemed mighty concerned about keeping the cops out of this.”
Richard’s eyes flickered with something—anger, maybe fear. “Isabelle has always been… protective of the family’s reputation. But this is none of your concern.”
Jack wasn’t buying it. He leaned forward, his voice low and hard. “You know something, Mr. Hartley. Something you’re not telling me. Veronica didn’t just vanish into thin air. Someone wanted her gone.”
The old man’s hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. “You don’t understand, Mr. Harrigan. This family… we have enemies. People who would do anything to see us fall.”
“Enemies, eh? Or maybe someone a little closer to home?”
Richard’s face twisted with rage, but before he could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
“That’s enough, Mr. Harrigan.”
Jack turned to see a man standing in the doorway, his tailored suit and cool demeanour marking him as someone who played with power like it was a toy. This was Alexander Ward, Veronica’s fiancé and a rising star in the political arena.
“You’re here to find Veronica, not to dig into the family’s affairs,” Alexander said, his tone clipped. “So why don’t you focus on doing your job?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your interest in all this, Mr. Ward? You seem awfully eager to keep me off the scent.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. “Veronica is the woman I’m going to marry. Her safety is my priority. But I won’t have you tarnishing her name with baseless accusations.”
Jack smirked. “Funny, I don’t remember making any accusations. But now that you mention it, maybe I should start.”
Before the tension could boil over, Richard stood up, his voice commanding. “That’s enough! Mr. Harrigan, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Jack knew when he’d hit a nerve. He tipped his hat and turned to go, but as he reached the door, he paused. “I’ll find her, Mr. Hartley. And when I do, I hope you’re ready for the truth.”
The rain had let up by the time Jack stepped back onto the street, but the storm was far from over. As he walked away from the Hartley mansion, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, but the street was empty.
Back at his office, Jack poured himself another drink, the whiskey burning a path down his throat as he mulled over what he’d learned. The Hartleys were hiding something—something big. And Alexander Ward was too smooth for his own good.
Jack didn’t trust him, but he knew one thing: Veronica Hartley was in danger. And the only way to save her was to unravel the web of lies that surrounded her.
As he sat in the dark, the city humming with secrets just beyond the glass, Jack Harrigan made a vow. He’d find Veronica, even if it killed him. Because in a city where everyone had something to hide, the truth was the only thing worth chasing.
The end
2. Writing: writing
The other day, I stumbled upon a conversation about the dichotomy between “writing” and “having written.” Now, while I may not grace the best-seller lists, I do hold the title of a published writer, and perhaps with a bit of audacity, I believe my voice has a place in this dialogue.
What struck me as a common thread among many writers is the apparent disdain for the act of writing itself, juxtaposed with the satisfaction of having written. The consensus seems to be that writing is a process fraught with frustration—ideas becoming marred in their translation from mind to page. But once the words are down, there’s a sense of relief, perhaps even pride, in having conquered the ordeal.
I understand this sentiment, but it is one I’ve never entirely shared. For me, writing is where the joy resides. The ritual of sitting down, opening up my document, and hearing the rhythmic click of keys as the voices in my head find their form—this is where I feel most alive. There’s a certain thrill in knowing that as chaotic as the process might seem, there’s always a chance to steer it right, to polish the rough edges. It’s intoxicating.
And yet, the aftermath, the so-called reward of “having written,” fills me with dread. Here, I find myself besieged by insecurities, gnawed at by the ever-present impostor syndrome. The moment I type “The end,” a shadow descends. Instead of triumph, I’m met with a sinking realization that I’ve exhausted my opportunities to fix what I perceive as a ruinous mess. My initial idea, once vivid and full of potential, seems to have withered in the execution, leaving me with a hollow shell of what could have been.
That’s one of the reasons I dislike versions. The idea of revisiting my work for editing or rewriting serves only to amplify this feeling. It’s as if I am returning to the scene of the crime, forced to confront the evidence of my perceived inadequacies. I would rather forget about it and move forward.
So, no, I do not revel in the feeling of “having written.” Instead, it serves as a reminder that despite all my efforts, I remain, in my own mind, a pretender—someone who strings together words but falls short of crafting anything genuinely worth reading.
3. Bye!
Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.
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