Re: The Poor Thing/The Detective
Don’t let the suit fool you, Sarah was here for pleasure as much as business. The train had been heading someplace that was a whole lot more fun than the one she’d left behind. And it was a real thorn in her side that she’d had to put down her martini, extra dirty, to deal with some old fucking biddy who’d had the nerve to disappear instead of just slipping off into sweet oblivion while she slept and the rest of the train drank and ate themselves stupid. So it was with a real direct sort of purpose that she stalked down the hallway toward the dining car, muttering to herself under her breath all the way.
Somebody was lying. Shit, probably somebodies, plural. The real pain in the ass was gonna be sifting through the harmless lies in order to pan out those one or two little nuggets of fool’s gold that, if left unfettered, would mean a whole lot of in bodies stacking up. She was hoping that the clattering of liquor bottles as their contents got dumped into the maws of the pampered and privileged would provide her with a lot of loose lips. Everybody knew that rich assholes loved to gossip almost as much as they loved to brag about where they’d summered. Sarah sucked a haul off the filter of her skinny cigarette (bitch sticks, her partner called them when he thought he was out of earshot and being slick) and steeled herself before heading into the dining car.
But she didn’t take that final step through the doorway, because something small and dark against the wall caught her eye. She turned and eyed the - kid, it was a kid, and a scrawny one at that. Dirty, too. Plastered up against the wall like he thought he could blend into the wallpaper if he pressed hard enough. Sarah raised an eyebrow and exhaled a plume of smoke between them, planting her fist against her hip and flipping back the edge of her suit jacket as she did. Her badge gleamed where she wore it clipped to her belt. “It’s ‘detective’, actually.”