When I crawled out of the bottle, escaped the allure of big city newspapers that would never take me back, and finally made my way home to Shrewsbury, Massachusetts, I never expected to find a major scoop in my own backyard. Of course that is precisely what happened.
The byline I write under is Chet Powder, and though my work on the Marcy Edwards tragedy got picked up for national syndication, there's a whole other side to things that most folks don't know. If you're reading this then count yourself among the lucky.
Here's the way the story really spun:
Marcy Edwards was a beautiful woman, hair the color of storm clouds at midnight, eyes as dark as the deepest sea. Her body had plenty of curves, round face, ample breasts, luscious hips and fifteen extra pounds from a taste for dark chocolate. She wore thick framed but stylish glasses to see because she could not stand the idea of rubbing something like a contact lens against her eyeball. Old fashioned, she affected skirts and stockings, and from the little bumps on either leg of her skirt, I could tell she liked garter belts instead of pantyhose.
She was, for me, one of the most beautiful people I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Her smile was not a regular comer—she often wore a somewhat scared face around town—but when that smile came, it was brighter than pointblank headlights. It really made the woman glow. Some folks in favor of hyperbole would opine it "warm enough to melt even a stone cold killer's heart". Well, I put that to the test, and it was not so. She was the first person to welcome me back to town, the neighbor girl who had grown up, filled out, and though she held on to that awkwardness I associate with most teenagers, it did not make her anything but adorable. I'm a sucker for a needy gal, and she had an air of need to her that I could not resist.