Tucker Bomar

The following is an excerpt from chapter one of "Clean." Darla, the protagonist, is experiencing a flashback as she cleans a client's house. She looked at the wall to the right side of the bed. Another secret panel hid there, protecting the Parson’s safe and family photo albums. Unlike those in bank robber movies, the safe wasn't anything special. Every so often, she’d peruse the photographs of long-dead Parson ancestors. Occasionally, Darla would find a new, crisply developed photo of the couple off on European adventures or relaxing Caribbean cruises. A life she would never know. Still, even hiding spots needed dusting. It'll be fine. They're not back till Friday. I'll get it tomorrow; got to hurry before I miss sunset, she thought as she approached the bed. The Parson’s bed was not a simple turn-down affair; it was a ceremony, a sacrament to the home. Once, she’d forgotten to make it. Darla remembered the sound of Silvia Parson shouting her name through the house. She remembered rushing into the room, sure she was about to be fired. “Does this bed look made, maid?” “No, ma’am.” The woman’s beady eyes had narrowed as she looked around the room. "How much are we paying you, dear?" Mrs. Parson asked as she walked around the bed. "Five dollars per cleaning for four cleanings per week,” Darla answered quickly. "And how much would it cost for daily cleaning? We expect to be here quite often with our office opening downtown. It might become a permanent move in a couple of years once we’re up and running. You’ll find my husband is fond of his dinner parties.” Silvia stopped, just inches away from her. “We wish to explore more of the culture here. You Carolinians are so simple, simple tastes and simple pleasures. Such a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of D.C. So, how much for you to come here and clean every day?" Darla was floored as she ran the calculations in her head. "Every day, ma'am?" she asked. “Every day, dear.” “Um- that’s…” Silvia Parson interrupted. "Are you a religious woman, Darla?" "I was raised Catholic, but no longer practice ma'am." "Then you will take off Christmas and Easter. Do you require more?" "I visit a friend in Florida for a week each summer." A fraction of a wrinkle split between Mrs. Parson’s eyebrows, "Christmas, Easter, and one week in the summer. Is that all, dear?" “Oh! And my birthday.” Darla blurted. Mrs. Parson narrowed into slits. “Christmas, Easter, one week in summer, and your birthday, and when is your birthday, dear?” Her voice seemed to grow colder with every question. “The fourteenth of April, ma’am. My birthday will land on Easter in two years, so I’ll get one less day off that year.” Darla had memorized her birthdays against all future corresponding holidays. “An unfortunate pairing,” Mrs. Parson said coolly. “I don’t mind sharing my birthday with the big guy in the sky, ma’am,” Darla smiled; Mrs. Parson did not. “So-” The woman took a long breath and rattled off, “Christmas, Easter, your birthday unless the two coincide, and one week in summer. Do I have that correct?” The sentence sounded more like a deliberation than a question. Darla nodded. The woman took a step closer. She had known Mrs. Parson was short, but up this close, Darla stood a solid half-head taller. “And the price?” “Fifty dollars a week.” Darla held her breath. You blew it! That’s too high, way too high! Silvia shrugged, "How does eighty dollars a week sound? For all seven days. I know the demand for good help in this neighborhood. All these women here think their reputations can buy them whatever they want; I disagree. Think of this as your retainer. I’m asking that you prioritize this house; if I call, you come running. Eighty dollars a week." Darla was dumbfounded; that was almost triple any of her other clients. She blinked and had the mindfulness to close her mouth as she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. That sounds good. I'll get right to that bed," she said, raising her hand in the small space between them. "Yes. Please do, dear." The woman said, taking Darla’s hand. She remembered Mrs. Parson’s fingers being so cold, like wrinkly icicles. That conversation had been a high point in Darla's career. The steady cash flow had been going straight to her vehicle savings account, and she was getting close to her goal. Fluffing the final pillow, she placed it gingerly on the bed. Taking a step back, she examined the bedframe that towered above the mattress like a wooden ribcage. The entire bedroom had taken her twenty minutes-ish to complete. She picked up her rag and walked over to a handle protruding from the wall by the hall door. The laundry chute was another hidden favorite of Darla’s, and it saved her from countless trips to the basement washing machine. She pulled the handle, and the hatch fell open. A cool draft pushed its way up the shaft and felt good against her skin. She used the chute for more than just laundry, dropping everything from spent cleaning supplies to empty liquor bottles into the basket below. Darla dangled her torn cleaning rag over the chute and let go. She waited for the soft thwap. It never came. The breeze from the chute stopped blowing. The hair on her neck stood up as Darla squinted into the dark opening. Must’ve gotten stuck. Darla tip-toed forward and leaned into the chute. The drop was just as dark as the hallway. She saw nothing, no glow from the basement lights that were always on. Absolute, eye-pressing darkness. She leaned further, grasping the walls on either side. Something moved down the chute, shifting sideways in the dark. Darla jerked back. A crash came from the room behind her, and she screamed. Careening into the bedroom, Darla spun and flailed her arms against the invisible intruder. I’m dead; I’m gonna die!

Part 3 for the March 2025 Write to Pitch New York Below is an excerpt from chapter one. This is the protagonist's memory of becoming a full-time hire for her employer. Darla circled the master bedroom, wielding the broom and dustpan like a knight in pitched combat. She looked at the wall to the right side of the bed. Another secret panel hid there, protecting the Parson’s safe and family photo albums. Unlike those in bank robber movies, the safe wasn't anything special. Every so often, she’d peruse the photographs of long-dead Parson ancestors. Occasionally, Darla would find a new, crisply developed photo of the couple off on European adventures or relaxing Caribbean cruises. A life she would never know. Still, even hiding spots needed dusting. It'll be fine. They're not back till Friday. I'll get it tomorrow; got to hurry before I miss sunset, she thought as she approached the bed. The Parson’s bed was not a simple turn-down affair; it was a ceremony, a sacrament to the home. Once, she’d forgotten to make it. Darla remembered the sound of Silvia Parson shouting her name through the house. She remembered rushing into the room, sure she was about to be fired. “Does this bed look made, maid?” “No, ma’am.” The woman’s beady eyes had narrowed as she looked around the room. "How much are we paying you, dear?" Mrs. Parson asked as she walked around the bed. "Five dollars per cleaning for four cleanings per week,” Darla answered quickly. "And how much would it cost for a daily clean? We expect to be here quite often with our office opening downtown. It might become a permanent move in a couple of years once we’re up and running. You’ll find my husband is fond of his dinner parties.” Silvia stopped, just inched away from her. “We wish to explore more of the culture here. You Carolinians are so simple, simple tastes and simple pleasures. Such a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of D.C. So, how much for you to come here and clean every day?" Darla was floored as she ran the calculations in her head. "Every day, ma'am?" she asked. “Every day, dear.” “Um- that’s…” Silvia Parson interrupted. "Are you a religious woman, Darla?" "I was raised Catholic, but no longer practice ma'am." "Then you will take off Christmas and Easter. Do you require more?" "I visit a friend in Florida for a week each summer." A fraction of a wrinkle split between Mrs. Parson’s eyebrows, "Christmas, Easter, and one week in the summer. Is that all, dear?" “Oh! And my birthday.” Darla blurted. Mrs. Parson narrowed into slits. “Christmas, Easter, one week in summer, and your birthday, and when is your birthday, dear?” Her voice seemed to grow colder with every question. “The fourteenth of April, ma’am. My birthday will land on Easter in two years, so I’ll get one less day off that year.” Darla had memorized her birthdays against all future corresponding holidays. “An unfortunate pairing,” Mrs. Parson said coolly. “I don’t mind sharing my birthday with the big guy in the sky, ma’am,” Darla smiled; Mrs. Parson did not. “So-” The woman took a long breath and rattled off, “Christmas, Easter, your birthday unless the two coincide, and one week in summer. Do I have that correct?” The sentence sounded more like a deliberation than a question. Darla nodded. The woman took a step closer. She had known Mrs. Parson was short, but up this close, Darla stood a solid half-head taller. “And the price?” “Fifty dollars a week.” Darla held her breath. You blew it! That’s too high, way too high! Silvia shrugged, "How does eighty dollars a week sound? For all seven days. I know the demand for good help in this neighborhood. All these women here think their reputations can buy them whatever they want; I disagree. Think of this as your retainer. I’m asking that you prioritize this house; if I call, you come running. Eighty dollars a week." Darla was dumbfounded; that was almost triple any of her other clients. She blinked and had the mindfulness to close her mouth as she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. That sounds good. I'll get right to that bed," she said, raising her hand in the small space between them. "Yes. Please do, dear." The woman said, taking Darla’s hand. She remembered Mrs. Parson’s fingers being so cold, like wrinkly icicles. That conversation had been a high point in Darla's career. The steady cash flow had been going straight to her vehicle savings account, and she was getting close to her goal. Fluffing the final pillow, she placed it gingerly on the bed. Taking a step back, she examined the bedframe that towered above the mattress like a wooden ribcage. The entire bedroom had taken her twenty minutes-ish to complete. She picked up her rag and walked over to a handle protruding from the wall by the hall door. The laundry chute was another hidden favorite of Darla’s, and it saved her from countless trips to the basement washing machine. She pulled the handle, and the hatch fell open. A cool draft pushed its way up the shaft and felt good against her skin. She used the chute for more than just laundry, dropping everything from spent cleaning supplies to empty liquor bottles into the basket below. Darla dangled her torn cleaning rag over the chute and let go. She waited for the soft thwap. It never came. The breeze from the chute stopped blowing. The hair on her neck stood up as Darla squinted into the dark opening. Must’ve gotten stuck.

Story Statement: A North Carolina woman is thrown into a blackmail scheme that threatens her small town and her life. Antagonist Sketch: Mrs. Silvia Parson has a tone that stiffens the spine and shivers the soul. Described by her husband as a witch with a capital B, there is nothing magical about the woman. Born to the frigid Ohio winters, Silvia has hidden the scars of her childhood beneath a layer of expensive makeup. At 68 years old, Silvia and her husband John have created a name for themselves. The power couple purchased a beautiful waterfront home in the coastal town of Beaufort, a quiet getaway from their private D.C. firm. Their dinner parties have become famous, and the invites are coveted among the residents who line the pavement of Front Street. Secrets are gathered, filed away, and cataloged. The residents are blissfully unaware until their follies are laid bare and eyes grow eyes. Silvia has been plotting this moment for years. So, when her husband John shows up dead, she must change course. If there’s anything Silvia likes less than dead husbands, it’s the inconvenience of changed plans. Silvia is as profane as she is polished, as cruel as she is calculated, and as cold as the winters that hardened her heart. Breakout Title: Clean 2 Comparables: Girl With The Dragon Tattoo: This novel gives a sense of dread that permeates the novel and its intricate plot lines. Historical accuracy also offers readers an appreciation of the writer's thoroughness. I Am Watching You: This novel is similar in that the different viewpoints keep the readers guessing who is lying. Hook, line, and sinker: Blood is in the waters of Beaufort, the capitalist sharks are circling. Darla must fight against the current of hate, blackmail, and the justice department as she saves her town, her friends, and her life. Internal conflict: Darla is well acquainted with rock bottom; her mundane life scrapes along at a snail's pace with the occasional high side of alcoholic blackouts. She longs for adventure, excitement, and money, a life beyond the walls of her mobile home. She is left to grapple with the fallout when her wish is granted. As the world throws her lemons like a 98 mph fastball, she is forced to answer some uncomfortable questions. Am I a bad friend? Am I as selfish as my brother? Am I the girl that will never make it out of the trailer park? Will I make it out alive? Hypothetical: Darla goes to great lengths to uncover the bad actors pulling her town's strings. From the window of her mobile home, she watches money and beachfront property being traded like playing cards. She just can’t afford to join the game. Darla is offered a deal to join the ranks of piranhas that feed on the accounts and securities of others. Darla realizes that she is human and that we all are tempted to take the path of least resistance. What will she do? Darla is the unsupervised child in the candy store, aware of the future stomach pains just enough for her hand to waiver above the brightly colored jars. She is presented with riches she can only imagine, but at what cost? Her morality is as murky as the brackish waters she grew up on. She loves her brother but hates the burden of being his caretaker. She is a friend but also a burden. She wants more, but is she ready? Setting Sketch: Honestly, if you want to hear how the setting will make you feel, go search on Spotify for “Threads of Fate” by Secession Studios/Greg Dombrowski. Imagine lying on a beach, thunder rumbles in the distance, the sky darkens, rain speckles your face, and you turn to the sound of a motor. Screaming around the dune is Darla in a fishing boat, pursued by gunmen, straight into the eye of a storm. The story takes place in the once-quiet coastal town of Beaufort, North Carolina. This is not the romanticized Nicholas Sparks, seagulls in the breeze, Beaufort that you might have heard of. This is the fish-smelling, boat horn chorus of a rotting town, with a bit of racial tension. The plot lines weave between that of Darla (Protagonist), Silvia (Antagonist), and a band of disabled Vietnam War veterans turned career criminals. Each perspective has the unique advantage of inner thoughts and the breath in which that character inhales the world around them. Some are sweet, some make you want to gargle mouthwash, and some are so kindhearted that you might weep. The physical setting has been thoroughly researched and has many coastal trappings specific to the Carolinas, wild horses, menhaden, seagull droppings, and hurricanes. The setting is designed to give you the gritty feeling of sand between your teeth; its conflict is uncomfortable and honest. But with discomfort comes reward, and some hurricanes leave behind the most beautiful rainbows.