The Clock Was Wrong. -word count: 972

Writer’s Cramp Entry for 11/9 2025 - Private Investigator Mystery

The Clock Was Wrong

Word Count: 972

Thomas Eugene Dillon sat behind his desk, nursing a cup of coffee black enough to peel paint. He needed it after playing poker with the boys until two a.m.

His secretary wasn’t due until nine, but when Mrs. Kimberly Underwood had called insisting on an 8:30 appointment—claiming her life could be in jeopardy—Ted figured she was one of those high-society dames with too much time and too little sense. Those types usually wanted him to find out who their husbands were sleeping with.

But when the door opened, he wasn’t ready for what walked through.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty. The green dress hugged her like silk poured over sin. Her heels matched, four inches at least. When she smiled, it was polite, practiced, and wrong.

“Mr. Dillon,” she said softly, “thank you for seeing me so early.”

He half-rose and gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“I think my husband is having an affair,” she began, placing a small green clutch on the desk. “And I need proof. I brought your retainer.”

She pulled out an envelope and set it neatly between them. “Twenty-five hundred dollars, up front.”

Ted didn’t touch it. “What makes you think he’s cheating?”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of her purse. “Because the clock is wrong.”

He blinked. “The clock was wrong?”

“Yes,” she said. “My bedside clock. Every night he works late, it’s off by two hours. I think he’s changing the time so I won’t know how late he gets home.”

Ted leaned back. “You’re sure about that?”

“I caught him resetting it once. He said I must’ve dreamed it.”

Her voice trembled on the last word, and Ted’s gut twisted in that way it did when a client wasn’t lying—but wasn’t telling the full truth, either.

“Where’s your husband now?” he asked.

“Business trip. He’s due back tonight.”

“Name?”

“Roger Underwood.”

Ted knew the name. Big-shot attorney. Owned half the town’s real estate and the other half’s silence.

“All right, Mrs. Underwood,” he said finally. “I’ll look into it.”

Her lips softened in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Dillon. I just need to know.”

She rose gracefully and left behind the faint scent of lilac and trouble.

That evening, Ted had the file. Roger Underwood wasn’t at any business meeting. He wasn’t at a bar or with a mistress. He was dead.

Found that morning in his office—gunshot wound to the head. Police were calling it a suicide.

Ted sat at his desk staring at the report when the door opened again. Kimberly. Same green dress, same calm expression.

“Mrs. Underwood,” he said slowly, “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

She smiled faintly. “I needed to see you before the news got out.”

“You mean about your husband.”

“Yes,” she said. “Such a tragedy.”

Her tone was even, almost rehearsed.

“You said your life might be in danger,” he said. “You left that out when you came in.”

She tilted her head. “I suppose I did.”

“Why?”

She glanced at the clock on his wall—it read nine-fifteen. Then she smiled. “Because I needed time to make sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That you’d believe me.”

Ted felt something cold crawl up his spine. “You killed him.”

Her eyes lit like emeralds in the lamplight. “He killed my sister two years ago. Car accident. He was drunk. The police buried it for money, and the world forgot her name.”

Ted stood. “So you set him up. You knew I’d dig into it.”

“Of course. I needed someone to confirm the timing… and the story.”

She looked down at the envelope still sitting on his desk. “That retainer was evidence, you see. My fingerprints, my confession, all wrapped neatly in cash. You’ll tell the police everything, Mr. Dillon. They’ll find the money, the statement, my visit—every clue exactly where I wanted them.”

He stared at her. “You’re confessing?”

Her smile widened. “Oh no. I’m giving you my husband’s confession.”

He frowned. “What?”

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small silver clock—the kind made for a bedside table. “This is the one from our room. You see, he didn’t just change the time.”

She pressed a button on the back. A faint hiss crackled from inside.

Ted froze. A recording.

Roger’s voice filled the office, distorted but unmistakable:
‘Kim, I’m sorry… I can’t live with what I did. I’ll make it right. The clock will be set to the time it happened… so you’ll remember.’

Then a gunshot.

The tape clicked off.

Ted’s mouth went dry. “He left a confession…”

She smiled, eyes gleaming wet. “He didn’t. I made it.”

She placed the clock on his desk beside the envelope. “And now, so will you.”

He stared, confusion and dread colliding. “What are you talking about?”

Her voice softened. “The clock was wrong, Mr. Dillon. I changed the time before I came here. It’s not nine-fifteen.”

Ted glanced at the wall clock—then at the window. Streetlights burned outside, but the horizon glowed faintly pink. Dawn.

His coffee mug was cold.

He looked back, heart hammering—but she was gone. The door was open, the air thick with lilac and lies.

On his desk, the little clock ticked steadily, counting down to something he couldn’t yet see.

And for the first time in twenty years, Ted Dillon realized he’d taken a case he might not live to close.