I got a startling call from my friend, Samuel. His voice came through with its usual warmth, carrying that undertone of mischief that always seemed to follow him, no matter the situation.
"Hello, Loren.," he greeted, his voice as bright as the Christmas morning sun streaming through my window.
"Yes, Sam?" I responded, my mouth full of a soggy cookie that had spent a little too long soaking in my milk coffee. I chewed quickly, trying not to sound entirely uncouth.
"Merry Christmas!" he exclaimed, as though his cheer alone could banish any gloom lingering in my apartment.
"Merry Christmas to you and your family," I returned, leaning back in my chair and holding the phone closer.
"Ah, thank you, thank you," he said, his words almost bouncing. "Now tell me, how are you spending this glorious morning? Coffee and cigarettes, I presume?"
"Milk coffee," I corrected, dipping another cookie with deliberate slowness, "and soggy cookies."
Samuel let out a hearty laugh, one that felt like it could shake the phone line. "You're a man of extravagant tastes, Hoffman. Truly living the high life."
I smirked, though he couldn't see it. "And you? Did you survive the ordeal of assembling toys and faking enthusiasm for bad Christmas sweaters?"
"Survive?" he echoed, mock incredulous. "I've thrived, my friend! The toys are built, the kids are overjoyed, and I'm wearing the ugliest sweater you've ever seen. Complete with blinking reindeer lights. It's hideous, but my wife insists it's tradition."
I couldn't help but chuckle at the image. Samuel had a way of dragging me into his world, where even the mundane seemed brighter. "Sounds like a picture-perfect morning," I said, leaning against the edge of the table.
"You should visit church, my friend. The one who doesn't have anyone has God with them," Samuel said, his voice brimming with sincerity.
I leaned back in my chair, stirring my milk coffee absently. While I respected his sentiment, religion had never been my strong suit. I might provoke a few Christians with my views, but I wasn't the kind of person who devotedly believed in God. That wasn't to say I was a complete skeptic. In my own way, I believed in some invisible force that bound us, a silent thread pulling the strings of fate. For whatever that force was, I'd always been grateful for what it had done for me—some might even call it a miracle.
"As if I don't have enough to keep me company—my cigarettes, my coffee, and of course, the ever-enthralling Cassandra Cottingham," I replied, my tone dry.
Samuel chuckled on the other end. "You must be upset there's no lingering essence of her around to torment you."
I smirked despite myself. "Upset? Please. But I'll give you this—she does know how to leave a mark. And you're right, all the Cs do seem to play pivotal roles in my life. Complex case. Cassandra Cottingham. Coffee. Cigarettes."
"You miss her, don't you? Her crude mockery and sharp insults," he teased. "Admit it. You liked it."
"Like music to my ears," I said with obvious sarcasm. "Those insults, so refined and sweet. How could I not miss her?"
Samuel laughed heartily. "The only living lady in your life. I've never doubted your taste. You're quite serious about her, aren't you?"
"Yes, very, very serious," I said, my patience thinning. "How could I not be? She's such a damsel in distress. Who wouldn't be seduced by her innocence and vulnerabilities?"
"Calm down," he said quickly, sensing my irritation. A moment of awkward laughter followed, broken by a sharp voice in the background. "Sam, come here!" The familiar female voice yelled from his end.
"Ah, duty calls," Samuel said sheepishly. "Later, Lorr. Husband responsibilities await."
"Take care," I said, hanging up the call.
The room was quiet again, but Samuel's words lingered. Cassandra Cottingham. Complex case. Coffee. Cigarettes. It seemed I was doomed to carry them all, whether I wanted to or not.
I sighed as I looked at the streets, where people were hugging, patting each other's backs, and exchanging blessings of "Merry Christmas." But my own situation felt both pitiful and lonely. I held a cigarette tightly between my fingers, an all-too-common sight.
My eyes drifted to the terrace of my neighbor, Clara Dawson, who had recently moved in. Clara had a cigarette in her hand, lost in her own world, her troubled expression betrayed by her worried brow. It was a relief to find solitude on the terrace, a break from the chaos of the world. I observed her closely, analyzing her fumbling gestures with the cigarette.
As our eyes met, I couldn't help but offer a sarcastic introduction. "Hey, the woman next door. Looks like I have a company. It's a rare thing in this apartment."
I smirked at her, noting her tight red dress, a Christmas party outfit perhaps? She returned my gaze, her expression filled with an unexpected intensity.
"Yes.," she replied, "Pleasant suprise to meet an intimidating neighbor like you."
The word "intimidating" caught my attention. "Intimidating?," I asked, "Why?"
Instead of answering, she merely sighed and said, her voice laced with uncertainty, "You are a detective... right?"
Her words surprised me. "How do you know?," I asked, my voice tinged with skepticism.
She let out a half-giggle and revealed, "I saw you on television, hiding your handsome face. "
I quickly clarified, "If you're flirting, I should mention, I'm not interested in married women... with a child.," I added.
She scoffed, flicking away more puffs of smoke. "Did I ever say I was interested? No, honey, I am not." Her gaze drifted away from me, her words laced with rejection.
"You're quite famous—infamous, I should add. Most people despise you for going against Cassandra. You're in a tight spot... a really bad spot," she chuckled darkly.
I took another slow drag, letting the smoke curl around me as I stared at her. There was something cold in her laughter, something that didn't match the playful tone she was trying to project.
"Infamous, huh?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I've never been a fan of popularity."
Her eyes flickered for a moment, like she was trying to gauge me, trying to figure out if I was going to snap back or play along. I didn't take the bait immediately, letting the silence stretch between us.
"You're right about one thing, though," I said finally, flicking the ash from my cigarette. "I'm in a tight spot. But then, when aren't we?"
She leaned against the railing, her posture shifting slightly, as if the mention of "tight spots" had touched a nerve. She exhaled another puff, her gaze still locked on me, but there was something unreadable in it now.
"You know," she said, her voice lower, more serious now, "Cassandra's not who everyone thinks she is."
I couldn't help but smirk at that. "I've spent enough time with her to form my own opinion. What does it make you form a similar opinion?"
"My own gut feeling.,"she replied.
Her eyes softened just a fraction, the mask slipping for a moment. "Doesn't mean it's the right one," she murmured, almost to herself.
I leaned in, curiosity piqued despite myself. "What do you mean by that?"
She looked at me then, and for the first time, there was a hint of something more—something deeper—in her gaze. "You have no idea, Detective. Cassandra might be... complicated. That I don't know.. But you're an aloof, simple and.... Well stupid, I must add that."
Her words hung in the air between us, heavier than any Christmas cheer could ever be.
"Merry Christmas," she said, her voice trailing off as she turned to head into her apartment. "May this Christmas bring all the joy to your life."