The streets were alive with Christmas cheer, bustling with shoppers and the scent of roasted chestnuts wafting through the cold air. Despite the festivities, a knot twisted in my stomach. I decided to stop at the bakery down the street—a well-known spot just a few blocks from my apartment. Names weren't my strong suit, but I knew the place. Their shelves were always full, though I doubted I'd be lucky enough to snag their famed croissants.
When I arrived, a long line snaked out the door, crushing my hopes. I glanced up at the sign, illuminated in festive red and green: The Dahm Fresh.
"Figures," I muttered under my breath.
"Mr. Hoffman!" a voice called.
I turned to see my neighbor seated at one of the outdoor tables. Clara Dawson sat poised, her crimson dress an elegant contrast to the weathered wood of the table. Beside her, her son Alex swung his legs, humming a carol under his breath.
"Hey, neighbor," I greeted with a nod, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets.
"It's Clara," she corrected, her tone polite but firm.
"Right. Mrs. Dawson," I amended, forcing a smile.
Her eyes flicked over me, sharp and assessing. "Alone today, Mr. Hoffman?"
"Seems that way," I replied, keeping my tone light. "And you?"
She gestured toward Alex, who was now demolishing a sugar cookie. "With my son." The words carried a faint edge, as if to underline the distinction between us.
I shrugged. "All dressed up. Headed to a party?"
"No," she said, her gaze lingering on me for a beat longer than necessary. "And you? Church, perhaps?"
"Something like that."
Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "I see. The ones who have no one always find God."
A dry cough escaped me, though it wasn't the cold causing it. I busied myself with the menu, scanning it as if the words might offer refuge.
"So, Mrs. Dawson, what are you having?"
"Eggnog and chocolate pastries," she replied smoothly, waving at the server who promptly delivered her extravagant order.
"And you, Mr. Hoffman?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with something I couldn't quite place.
"Coffee and gingerbread," I said, keeping it simple.
The server returned with my modest order. I took a sip of the coffee, the bitterness grounding me against the holiday sweetness permeating the air.
"So, where's Mr. Dawson?" I asked casually, though her absence of a wedding ring hadn't escaped my notice.
"Our order arrived," she said, brushing off the question as she placed a pastry in front of Alex.
I leaned back in my chair, watching as she fussed over her son. Her deliberate deflection didn't go unnoticed. Clara Dawson was a woman of elegant precision, every movement and word carefully measured. The red dress wasn't just a holiday choice—it was a statement.
I took another sip of coffee, letting the silence between us stretch. Whatever game she was playing, she wasn't ready to show her hand.
Clara's phone buzzed, breaking the uneasy lull between us. She glanced at the screen, her expression tightening as her finger hovered over the screen. With a swift motion, she cut the call.
"Mama, it's Father," Alex said innocently, swinging his legs under the table.
Clara's hand trembled as she picked up her eggnog. She avoided her son's wide eyes, instead sliding the plate of chocolate cake closer to him. "Here, sweetie. Have some more," she said softly.
I leaned back, watching her closely. Her leg bounced beneath the table, her usually graceful demeanor unraveling. She looked like a cornered cat—tense and jittery.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
She gave a faint smile, though her voice betrayed her. "Yeah, yeah, Mr. Hoffman. Just... a lot on my mind."
I took a bite of my gingerbread, letting the silence stretch, waiting for her to speak.
"I think my husband's cheating," she said abruptly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the blunt confession.
"I need some tips, Detective," she added, leaning forward, her hands clasped together.
I chuckled softly, more out of reflex than humor.
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you think that's funny?"
"Not at all," I said, holding up a hand. "But I'm afraid I don't handle matrimonial disputes. Homicide is more my department."
She looked away, her gaze fixing on the Christmas lights strung across the bakery's awning. "Matrimony or not, you're still a detective," she muttered.
"Fair," I said, nodding. "But it's hard to solve a case when you're shooting in the dark. I've never even seen your husband—it's like aiming at something that's not there."
Her fingers tightened around her mug. "Jack doesn't come home on time anymore. He's always late—midnight, sometimes later."
"Sounds like work," I offered. "I've got a friend who's as loyal as they come, but his hours are brutal."
She scoffed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "He runs a small restaurant. It closes at nine."
That gave me pause.
"And," she continued, "he's always on his phone, talking to someone."
"That's... suspicious," I admitted. "What's his name?"
"Jack Dawson," she said, her voice flat.
Something clicked. "Do you know Noah Dawson?"
Her expression shifted, darkening. "Yes. That's his brother. They were on bad terms. I heard he's dead."
"He is," I confirmed, setting down my coffee.
Her eyes narrowed, a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "How do you know?"
"Homicide Bureau," I said with a small shrug. "It's my job."
Her lips parted as if to say something, but she hesitated. Her leg jiggled under the table again, and she glanced at Alex, who was happily licking chocolate off his fingers, oblivious to the tension.
"Do you think..." she started, then shook her head. "No, never mind."
"What is it?" I pressed.
She hesitated again, as though weighing whether to confide in me. "Do you think Jack could be involved... in something worse?"
"Worse than infidelity?" I asked, half-joking to ease the tension.
She didn't laugh.
"He's afraid of cockroaches, and let's not forget—he doesn't have the guts," she said, almost with a sneer.
"Guts?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," she continued, her voice laced with frustration, "He cries over things like... well, you know, during... ejaculations, Mr. Hoffman."
I cleared my throat. "Let's skip the details."
She scoffed, a mix of bitterness and amusement. "He's got the guts to cheat, though. That much, I guess, he can handle."
"Like his brother," I muttered before I could stop myself.
"His brother?" she repeated, her curiosity piqued.
"Yeah. During the investigation, I found out Noah had a reputation—a real womanizer."
Clara's lips tightened as she processed the information, her gaze turning sharp. "Maybe infidelity runs in their blood. Sons of bitches," she added bitterly, before slapping her hand over her mouth as soon as Alex echoed the last part.
I sighed, trying to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. "You're a smart woman, Clara. You should really think about what comes next. Divorce is a heavy decision."
She glanced down at Alex, his innocent eyes wide as he ate his cake, and her expression faltered for just a moment. "I know," she said, her voice low and tense.
Clara stared at her son for a moment longer, her eyes softening. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I never thought I'd end up like this," she murmured, almost to herself. "Caught between a rock and a hard place, with a man who won't even look me in the eye anymore."
I watched her carefully, though I didn't say anything for a beat. I knew better than to rush in with empty advice. "People change," I said finally, my voice steady. "Sometimes in ways you can't predict."
She glanced at me, the skepticism still there but softened by something else. "And sometimes they change for the worse." She hesitated, then added, "And sometimes they don't change at all."
I couldn't help but nod. "True. But you need to decide what you're willing to live with... or without."
Her lips curled into a thin smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You don't understand, Mr. Hoffman. You have no idea what it's like to feel like you're being erased by someone you love."
There it was—the vulnerability she kept so carefully hidden. I could see it now, the weight of her uncertainty and fear. I wasn't sure how much of it was about Jack and how much was about something deeper, something she might not even recognize yet.
"I don't claim to understand," I said. "But I do know that you can't let someone else's actions define your worth. You have to decide for yourself what kind of life you want."
Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she looked down at Alex, who had finished his cake and was now playing with his toy car. "I'm so tired, Detective. So tired of wondering if I'm wasting my time. And I'm scared. Scared that if I do something about this, I'll lose him... and I'll lose everything else too."
I didn't know how to answer her. Sometimes the answers weren't as simple as a detective's cold logic. But one thing was clear—Clara was at a crossroads, and whatever path she chose would ripple through the rest of her life.
I stood up, pushing my chair back slowly. "You're not alone in this, Clara. But sometimes, you have to be the one to take the first step."
She nodded, though I could tell she was still wrestling with her own doubts. "I'll think about it, Detective. I just wish I knew what to do."
Before I could respond, Alex looked up at me, his eyes bright. "Mr. Hoffman, do you want to play with my car?"
I gave him a smile, though it didn't reach the tired corners of my own heart. "Maybe another time, kid."
Clara gave me a brief nod of acknowledgment, and I turned to leave, the weight of her situation lingering in the back of my mind.
As I stepped out into the cold street, I couldn't shake the feeling that Clara's path was more tangled than she realized—and that Jack's role in all of this might be even more complicated than either of them knew.