Jack Dawson took a sharp drag from the cigarette, the rough cough that followed breaking the tense silence.
"Careful, Mr. Dawson," I said, eyeing the plume of smoke escaping his lips. "You're quite young to be hacking up a lung already."
He grinned, the kind of grin that suggested he'd heard it all before. "Oho, I think I've found my second wife," he teased, "and she lives right next door."
I raised an eyebrow, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice. "An honor, really, Mr. Dawson. But you know my interests lean away from men… especially those with questionable taste in tattoos."
He laughed, a low, raspy sound, and leaned back, fixing me with a sharp gaze. "Saw you on television a couple of weeks ago. Your reputation's… colorful, to say the least, my dear second wife."
"Media's got a way of making anyone look glamorous," I shot back, feigning nonchalance. "Next thing you know, they'll be saying I own a private jet. Hoffman Airlines—now that has a ring to it, doesn't it?"
Jack smirked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "When that happens, you better save me a ticket, my dear second wife."
I leaned in just slightly, dropping my tone to something both light and sharp. "Careful, Dawson. You wouldn't want to end up with a third spouse, now, would you? Especially one with my… flair."
His grin faltered for just a second, caught off guard, before he chuckled. "Touché."
Jack chuckled, his laugh a raspy mix of amusement and the lingering cough. "A third wife? Hoffman, I'd be the talk of the town. The man who married his neighbor—who also happens to be a detective."
I smirked, leaning against the railing. "You'd be lucky if that's the headline. Knowing the media, they'd spin it into something outrageous like Tattooed Restaurateur Marries Mysterious Neighbor in Scandalous Plot Twist."
Jack grinned, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "I'd read that. Front page, Hoffman. We'd go viral."
"Only if you manage to keep Clara from throwing me off this terrace," I quipped.
He laughed louder this time, rubbing the back of his neck. "You think she'd aim for you? Nah, I'm the one she'd toss first. You'd be the witness giving a statement."
"Witness or accomplice? That depends on how annoying you plan to be," I shot back, crossing my arms.
Jack exhaled a plume of smoke, tilting his head at me. "Annoying, huh? You're the one throwing the sass my way, Second Wife. I'm just trying to enjoy my smoke in peace."
"And I'm trying to enjoy my coffee without an impromptu soap opera next door," I countered.
"Fair point," he admitted, tapping ash over the edge of the railing. "But admit it—you'd miss the entertainment if I stopped giving you something to gossip about."
I shrugged, a sly smile playing on my lips. "Maybe. But don't get too cocky, Dawson. Chaos has a short shelf life."
Jack leaned closer, his green eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "And what about order, Hoffman? Does that come with a guarantee?"
"Order doesn't need guarantees," I replied smoothly. "It just waits for chaos to self-destruct."
He chuckled again, flicking the cigarette stub over the edge. "Well, here's to self-destruction, neighbor. Let's see who burns out first."
I crossed my legs and leaned in slightly, my gaze sharp and intentional as I studied the scene in front of me. The flicker of doubt in my mind was replaced with resolve, my expression growing more composed. I adjusted my posture, straightening my back, while my fingers lightly tapped against the table, betraying the calm I was trying to maintain.
"So, Mr. Dawson, you know your brother Noah?" I asked, my tone growing serious as I leaned in slightly, my posture firm and direct.
"Noah Dawson? My older brother," he replied, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and guardedness. "Yeah, I know him. How do you know him?"
"I just happen to know him," I hinted, keeping my expression neutral but focused. "So where is he?"
He furrowed his brow, his tone growing sharper. "What do you mean? Must be at his desk with his fancy salary… probably throwing cash around to all his chicks," he sneered, taking another sharp drag from his cigarette. He exhaled slowly, watching me intently.
"So, what's your relation with him?" I asked, looking straight at him as I crossed my legs and rested them on the table, settling into the chair with a quiet confidence.
"What's the point here, Hoffman?" he challenged, both eyebrows raised. "We haven't exactly been on good terms. He was always the golden child—good grades, good jobs, team leader… I'm the black sheep of the family, tattooed up and running a restaurant that somehow manages to stay afloat."
He smacked his lips, scratched his head, and gazed at me warily.
"Why do you need to know now?" he demanded, his voice growing defensive. "You want to marry him or something?"
I shook my head. "No. I don't."
His expression softened slightly, though the suspicion didn't leave his eyes entirely.
"You know that he's dead?" I said, my voice steady and firm.
His eyes widened in surprise. "Dead? So, papa and mama's favorite child is gone?" He paused, clearly processing what I just said. "So how was it? Car accident? Health problem? Or maybe too glued to his damn computer?"
"A cold-blooded murder," I said, my voice cutting through the air with finality.