All old buildings are home to trained flocks of choreographed, jump-scare pigeons in the dust-laden rafters.
Killers can turn rusty doorknobs and cross the most decrepit and warped hardwood floor without making any measurable sounds, but their victims’ tiniest movements clock in around 92 decibels.
Everyone but me swallows pills without water with no problems.
Lawyers get hired on the spot in one interview by impressing the partners.
All spies meet on park benches.
All police chiefs are angry, middle-aged black men who are sick of your excuses.
All criminals can be triangulated by cellphone towers and advise recognized in seconds, but cases over five years old are still on paper and hidden away in “the archives,” which are “still waiting to be alphabetized.” They are run by an officer with an odd personality who knows exactly where every case file is.
I'm holding my breath until you comment.