The rain hadn’t stopped since Tuesday, and neither had the bills. My name’s Rex Calhoun, private investigator, caffeine enthusiast, and part-time philosopher when rent’s due. The city outside my window was drowning in its own perfume of gasoline and regret, and I was halfway through my third cup of burnt coffee when she walked in.

She had the kind of presence that made the room stand up straighter. The air turned cinematic. Her heels clicked across the linoleum like punctuation marks in a confession.

“Mr. Calhoun,” she said, voice smooth as smoke. “I hear you’re the man to see when things stop adding up.”

“Depends what kind of math you’re doing, doll,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t take on algebra or heartbreak.”

She smiled like a cat that knew the mouse was bluffing. “I’m not here for heartbreak. I’m here for truth. My husband… I think he’s involved in something. Organized crime, maybe. I just can’t prove it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a heavy maybe. What makes you think your mister’s moonlighting as a mobster?”

She crossed one leg over the other, deliberate as a loaded gun. “He’s always ‘working late.’ Keeps a separate phone. His associates have names like Vinnie Two-Toes and Sal the Quiet. And our new boat? He paid cash.”

I whistled low. “Lady, that’s not a hunch. That’s a résumé.”

“I need proof,” she said, eyes sharp. “Something solid before I make my move.”

“Your move?” I asked. “You planning to leave him or have him relocated to the bottom of that boat?”

“Depends on what you find,” she said sweetly. “And whether he deserves flowers or a funeral.”

I chuckled. “You’ve got spunk. That’s dangerous in this town. It attracts bullets and bad decisions.”

“I attract both already, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, standing up. “I just need someone who knows how to aim back.”

I watched her hand me an envelope. Cash. Enough zeroes to make me forget my better judgment.

“Find out who he really is,” she said. “And call me when you’re sure I’ll still want to know.”

She turned to leave, raincoat brushing the door frame like the end of a song.

When she was gone, I opened the envelope. There was cash, a photo, and a faint scent of expensive perfume. The kind that sticks around like regret.

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need and stared out at the city again.

The rain kept falling, but now I knew, and so would someone else.