The solved case lay neatly filed on my desk, a testament to weeks of relentless pursuit. Bill Waterford, the sly player, had cloaked his activities well, leading me down countless dead ends. My assistant's photos, showing him in what appeared to be a lover's embrace with a woman, had been the ultimate red herring. It wasn't until I was on the verge of admitting defeat that the truth hit me, a blinding flash of insight: what if the 'woman' wasn't a woman at all?

Bingo. Frankie Stapleton, a name I'd dismissed as a mere business associate, turned out to be Francis, a cross-dresser transitioning to Frances. Bill was secretly supporting his cousin, emotionally and financially, out of fear of his wife, Eleanor's, extreme prejudices. The 'lover's embrace' was simply a hug of support.

Leaning back in my worn executive chair, feet propped on the desk, I allowed myself a moment of triumphant gloating. The mystery was solved, no judgment towards Frankie, just quiet satisfaction. But then, the next dilemma loomed: writing the report for Eleanor Waterford. Bill's pleas to keep the truth from her battled with my duty to my client, who, unfortunately, controlled the family purse strings. Eleanor's past comments made it clear Bill's fears were justified. My sense of right and wrong was tangled. The clock read six o'clock on a Friday. Eleanor Waterford’s report could wait until Monday. I needed time to sleep on it.

Just then, Nora, my best friend since middle school and a supervisor in the secretarial pool, cracked my office door open. “I need a drink. How about you?” she asked, popping her head through the gap. I smiled, closed the folder on my desk, grabbed my handbag and sweater, and nodded. “More than one, I think.”