A Lunch Break

David’s morning sessions drained him. He walked out of the session room and collapsed into the big white armchair. Its softness offered much-needed comfort. He spent some time reading a book and occasionally glancing at Cristine at her desk. Her long hair was neatly combed into a ponytail. She looked very professional in the blue dress she was wearing. She didn’t look at David once, and he wondered if she still remembered his existence.

When the phone rang, she answered it immediately. David smiled at her soft voice and thought his clients must enjoy it just as much.

“Yes, Mr. Brook. Mr. Richards is here at the office.”

David heard the surname and stood up sharply.

“Is it Detective Brook?”

“Yes, Mr. Richards. He wants to know why you haven’t been answering his phone calls for the last four days.” Cristine hesitated. David noticed a question lingering in her eyes.

“I’ll call him back later,” David said and returned to the armchair.

“Mr. Brook—uh, Detective—Mr. Richards will call you back later,” she said before hanging up. She looked at David. He caught her stare but decided to remain silent.

The big black clock on the white wall seemed especially loud.

“It’s lunchtime. Let’s go, Cristine.” David stood again and walked to the small wardrobe. He put on his spotless black coat.

Cristine looked at him, her mouth half open, ready to ask a question, but David spoke first.

“I want to buy you lunch.”

“Why?” she finally asked.

“You’ve been working here for a month now.”

“Wow…”

David heard no excitement in her voice. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

He walked to the door and glanced back at Cristine.

Is this woman scared of having lunch with me?

Cristine finally got up, grabbed her coat, and followed David.

The café across the street from their office building was warm and cozy. David sat in his usual spot in the far corner near the window. Cristine followed him, and they sat at the table. He allowed a few moments of silence as Cristine scanned the place. The warm aroma of coffee in the dimly lit space usually relaxed him. David hoped it would have the same effect on Cristine.

He noticed the owl brooch on her dress. Cristine’s fingers gently touched it.

“Nice brooch,” he said, drawing her attention back to him.

“Thank you. It belonged to my mother.” Cristine smiled softly.

“Check the menu. Order whatever you like.” David opened his menu, hiding his face behind it.

Brooch from her mother. Very relevant for today.

When they were both done eating, David ordered coffee for them: a large cappuccino without sugar and with a bit of cinnamon for Cristine. He already knew her preferences too well.

“Thank you, Mr. Richards.” She smiled at him, and he caught himself staring for a bit too long. “I appreciate it. Honestly—thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, Cristine.” He smiled back. “You’ve been a great assistant. My workdays are much more organized now. I have time for lunch. For rest. I even have time to look through old cases I haven’t been able to revisit for years.”

David watched with satisfaction as her face turned red and her smile reached her eyes.

“By the way, this is the case I mentioned yesterday. I need your help with it.”

He reached into his brown leather bag and took out a thick blue folder. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of Cristine.

She looked at it, then back at David.

“Single mothers’ murder cases?”

David heard the unevenness in her breath as she spoke. “You want my help with this case?”

“Yes. Open the folder, Cristine. Read the information.” He gently opened it for her and gestured for her to continue.

Cristine read in silence. Her fingers gripped the owl brooch tighter with every sentence. David watched her, his breath held. He didn’t speak until she finished.

Her eyes remained fixed on the first page for several long moments. Then she lifted her gaze and threw a wild look at David.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice smooth and cold.

“Did you know?” she asked. Her voice shook, and it seemed her entire body was trembling.

Sitting alone in his office late in the evening, David’s thoughts kept returning to the café scene. The small fragment of truth he had shared with Cristine was another piece of the puzzle. The bigger picture still had to remain hidden from her.

A phone call crashed into his train of thought.

He looked at the screen. James.

Damn it. Why now, James?

David turned the phone face down and set it on his desk. It didn’t help. The phone rang again. And again.

He gave up.

“What is it, James?” he muttered.

“Finally. What the hell, man?”

“Been busy.”

“Busy with what?”

A pause.

“How’s everything with her?”

“As planned.”

“You told her about the case?”

“A part of it.”

“How can you say that so calmly?”

“You want me to panic?”

“You know what I mean.” James sighed. “I’m not far from your office. Wait for me.”

“No—”

The call ended.

David poured two glasses and took out a bottle of whiskey, already knowing the conversation would be long.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at his door.

“Come in. It’s open,” David called, not bothering to get up from the armchair.

James walked in. His  black leather jacket and  jeans were wet. He walked in the rain.

“Good to see you, Detective Brook,” David said.

“Yeah. Of course, Dr. Richards.” James picked up the already filled glass and sat at David’s desk. “Pretty comfortable setup.”

“Why are you here, James?”

“I can’t visit my friend anymore?”

“Cut the crap.”

James studied him. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

David downed his glass and looked at him closely. James seemed worried. Dark circles framed his eyes, and his black curls fell messily over his forehead.

“How did she react?” James asked.

“She thinks I’m interested in her because of the case.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“For now.”

James frowned. “You told her part of the story?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you just tell her everything?”

“She isn’t ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For what I need.”

James leaned forward. “And what makes you think she’ll agree later?”

“It’s simple,” David said calmly. “She received her first salary. She paid her mother’s hospital bills. She feels important here. Appreciated.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “Those are good things. Why do they sound wrong when you say them?”

“Because they work.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Very soon,” David continued, “she’ll be eager to do anything to please me.”

“Damn it, David. That’s immoral.”

“I don’t care about morality. I need her so I can get to her mother.”

“You’ll end up becoming a monster while trying to catch one.”

“After all,” David replied coolly, “she’ll benefit too.”

James stood and drained his glass.

“There’s been another murder,” he said. “Same pattern as in that folder.” He pointed at the blue folder on Cristine’s desk—the same one David had shown her during lunch.

“I know,” David said. “It’s him.”

“We’ll see.” James’s voice hardened. “Don’t get involved.”

David smiled faintly. “Yes, sir.”

“This isn’t a joke,” James said quietly. “Take care of yourself.”

The detective left.

David remained seated in silence until there was no whiskey left in the bottle.