Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Vanishing Violet

I was three fingers into a neat whisky and one finger into a thoroughly bad mood when they approached me—two slabs of man, all brow ridge and bad life choices, like someone had built a pair of knuckle sandwiches and taught them how to walk.

I'd been stood up again by the barmaid. Nice eyes, dodgy taste in women, said she'd meet me after her shift. She didn’t. I’d even worn my best lipstick.

© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare



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